m		Also by Georges Simenon
in Thomdike Large Print ®
The Murderer
Maigret at the Gai-Moulin
Maigret and the Gangsters
This 	Large Print Book carries the
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f
i
,<
Maigret
Goes
Home
Georges Simenon
Translated by Robert Baldick
Thomdike Press • Thorndike, Maine
/	.	-t
S
' ^
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data:
Simenon, Georges, 1903-
Maigret goes home / Georges Simenon ; translated by
Robert Baldick.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-56054-529-1 (alk. paper : Ig. print)
1. Large type books. I. Title.
[PQ2637.I53A713 1993] 9232617
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Copyright © 1959 by Librairie Artheme Fayard.
English translation copyright © 1967 by Robert Baldick.
All rights reserved.
Thorndike Large Print® All-Time Favorites Series edition
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Maigret
Goes
Home

'I
The Little Girl with the Squint
There was a timid scratching at the door, the
sound of an object being put on the floor, a
furtive voice:
"It's half past five! The first bell for All
I Souls' Day Mass has just been rung. ..." Maigret raised himself on his elbows, making
the mattress creak, and while he was look
ing in astonishment at the skylight cut in the
sloping roof, the voice went on:
"Are you taking Communion?" By now Chief Inspector Maigret was out of bed, standing barefoot on the icy floor. He
walked toward the door, which was closed
with a piece of string wound around a couple
of nails. There was the sound of footsteps;
hurrying away. When he looked out into the
hallway, he was just in time to catch sight
of the figure of a woman in a bed jacket and
a white petticoat.
He picked up the jug of hot water Marie
Tatin had brought him, closed his door, and
looked for a piece of mirror in front of whichi he could shave.
7
The candle had only a few minutes of life
left. Outside the skylight, it was still night, a cold night in early winter. A few dead leaves
were clinging to the branches of the poplars
in the marketplace.
Maigret could stand up only in the middle
of the attic, because of the double slope of
the roof. He was cold. A thin draft, the source
of which he had been unable to trace, chilled
the back of his neck.
It was precisely this quality of coldness
that disturbed him, by plunging him into an
atmosphere he thought he had forgotten.
The first bell for Mass . . . The bell ringing
out over the sleeping village . . . When
he was a boy, Maigret did not usually get up
so early. He would wait for the second bell, because in those days he did not need to
shave. Did he so much as wash his face?
Nobody brought him any hot water. Sometimes
the water was frozen in the jug. Soon
afterward his shoes would be clattering along
the frozen road.
Now, while he was getting dressed, he could
hear Marie Tatin coming and going in the
main room of the inn, rattling the grate of
the stove, moving crockery about, and turning
the handle of the coffee mill.
He put on his jacket, his overcoat. Before
going out, he removed from his wallet a piece
8
Of paper with an official slip pinned to it bearing
the words:
MUNICIPAL POLICE OF MOULINS
Communicated for information and possible
action to the Police Judiciaire in
Paris:
Then a sheet of lined paper with laborious
handwriting:
This is to tell you that a crime will be committed
in the church at Saint-Fiacre during
the first Mass on All Souls' Day.
The sheet of paper had lain around for several
days in the offices of the Quai des Orfevres.
Maigret had noticed it by accident, and had
asked in surprise: ^ "Is that the Saint-Fiacre near Matignon?"
"Probably, since it was sent to us by Moulins."
^
And Maigret had put the piece of paper in
his pocket. Saint-Fiacre, Matignon, Moulins:
words more familiar to him than almost any
others.
He had been born in Saint-Fiacre, where ^s father had been the estate manager of the thateau for many years. The last time he had
gone there had, in fact, been after the death
9
of his father, who had been buried in the
little graveyard behind the church.
. . . a crime will be committed. . . during
the first Mass . . .
Maigret had arrived the day before. He had
taken a room at the only inn in the village:
Marie Tatin's. She had not recognized him,
but he had known her because of her eyes.
The little girl with the squint, as they used
to call her. A puny little girl who had become
an even skinnier old maid, squinting more
and more, and endlessly bustling about the
bar, the kitchen, and the yard, where she kept
rabbits and hens.
The chief inspector went downstairs. The
ground-floor rooms were lit by oil lamps. A
table was laid in one corner. There was coarse
gray bread, a smell of coffee with chicory,
and boiling milk.
"You're wrong not to take Communion
on a day like today. Especially seeing that
you're taking the trouble to go to the first
Mass. . . . Heavens! That's the second bell
ringing already!"
The voice of the bell was faint. Footsteps 1
could be heard on the road. Marie Tatin
fled into her kitchen to put on her black
dress, her cotton gloves, and her little hat,
10
which her bun prevented from staying on
straight.
"I'll leave you to finish your breakfaist.
You'll lock the door, won't you?"
"No, wait! I'm ready."
She was embarrassed to be walking with
a man. A man who came from Paris! She trotted
along, a small bent figure, in the cold
morning air. Some dead leaves were fluttering
about on the ground. The crisp sou:nd
they made showed that there had been a frost
during the night.
There were other shadowy figures coinverging
on the dimly shining doorway of the
church. The bell was still ringing. There
were lights in the windows of some low-binilt
houses: people dressing in a hurry for t:he
first Mass.
Maigret rediscovered other impressio*ns
from his childhood: the cold, the eyes smarting, the tips of the fingers frozen, a lingerLng
taste of coffee in the mouth. Then, on going
into the church, a wave of warm air, of soft
light, the smell of the tapers and the incense.
"Excuse me, will you? . . . I've got nny
own prayer stool," she said.
And Maigret recognized the black chair ^th the red velvet armrest of old Madarne ^atin, the mother of the little girl with the
squint ^,
11
The rope, which the bell ringer had just
let go of, was still quivering at the far
end of the church. The sacristan was lighting
the last tapers. How many were there in
that ghostly gathering of half-asleep people?
Fifteen at the most. There were only three
men: the sacristan, the bell ringer, and
Maigret.
. . . a crime will be committed . . .
At Moulins, the police had treated the matter
as a bad joke and had not worried about
it. In Paris, they had been surprised to see
the chief inspector set off.
Maigret heard some noises behind the door
to the right of the altar, and he could
guess second by second what was happening:
the sacristy, the altar boy arriving late, the priest putting on his chasuble without
a word, joining his hands together, and
walking toward the nave, followed by the
boy, stumbling along in his cassock . . .
The boy was red-haired. He shook his bell.
The murmur of the liturgical prayers began.
. . . during the first Mass . . .
Maigret had looked at all the shadowy figures
one by one. Five old women, three of
12
whom had a prayer stool reserved for her
own use. A farmer's fat wife. Some younger
farm women and one child . . .
The sound of a car outside; the creak of
the door; some light footsteps: then a lady
in mourning walked the whole length of the
church.
In the chancel was a row of stalls reserved
for people from the chateau, hard seats of
polished old wood. And it was there that the
woman took her seat, noiselessly, followed
by the farm women's eyes.
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine ..."
Maigret could perhaps still have recited
the responses to the priest. He smiled at the
thought that in the past he had preferred
the Requiem Masses to the others, because
the prayers were shorter. He could remember
Masses that had been celebrated in sixteen
minutes.
But now he had eyes only for the occupant
in the Gothic stall. He could barely make out
her profile. He hesitated to identify her as
Countess de Saint-Fiacre.
"Dies irae, dies ilia ..."
| It was she, all right! But when he had last
seen her, she was thirty-five or thirty-six. She w^ a tall, slim, melancholy woman, whom
he used to catch sight of from a distance in
| ^e park. ^'
"i,-- ^.
13
I
Now she would be well into her sixties. She
was praying fervently, her emaciated face pale, her long delicate hands clasping a missal.
Maigret had remained in the last row of
straw-bottomed chairs, those that cost five
centimes at High Mass, but were free at Low
Mass.
... a crime will be committed . . .
He stood up with the others at the first
Gospel. Details attracted his attention on all
sides, and memories forced themselves upon
him. For example, he suddenly thought:
On All Souls' Day the same priest celebrates
three Masses.
In his time, he used to have breakfast at
the priest's house between the second and
third Masses: a hard-boiled egg and some
goat cheese . . .
It was the Moulins police who were right.
There couldn't be a crime.
The sacristan had taken his seat at the
end of the stalls, four places beyond the
countess. The bell ringer had walked away
with a heavy tread, like a theatrical producer
who has no desire to watch his own production.

There were no other men left but Maigret
and the priest, a young priest with the pas14

sionate gaze of a mystic. He didn't hurry like
the old priest the chief inspector had known.
He didn't mumble half the verses.
The stained-glass windows were turning
pale. Outside, day was breaking. A cow was
lowing on a farm.
And soon everybody was bending double
for the Elevation. The altar boy's bell tinkled
shrilly.
Maigret was the only one who did not take
Communion. All the women walked toward
the altar rail, their hands folded, their faces
expressionless. Hosts so pale that they seemed
unreal passed for a moment through the
priest's hands.
The Mass continued. The countess's face
was buried in her hands.
"Pater Noster ..."
"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem ..."
The old woman's fingers parted, revealed
a tormented face, opened the missal.
Another four minutes . . . The prayers, the
last Gospel, and then everybody would go
out. And there would not have been a crime.
The warning stated clearly: the first Mass.
The proof that it was over was that the sacnstan
was standing up, ready to go into the
sacristy.
Countess de Saint-Fiacre's head was buried
m her hands once more. She was not moving.
• 15
Most of the other women were just as rigid.
"Ite, missa est." The Mass is over. . . .
Only then did Maigret feel how anxious
he had been; he had scarcely realized it as
he waited impatiently for the last Gospel.
Heaving an involuntary sigh, he was thinking
about breathing the fresh air outside, seeing people moving around, hearing them
talking about this and that.
The old women woke up all together.
Feet shuffled on the cold flagstones of the
church. One started for the door, then another.
The sacristan appeared with a candle
extinguisher, and a thin wisp of blue smoke
took the place of each flame.
Day had broken. Gray light was entering
the nave along with drafts of air.
Three people were left . . . two. ... A
chair moved. Only the countess remained, and Maigrefs nerves became taut with impatience.

The sacristan, who had finished his task, looked at Madame de Saint-Fiacre. A puzzled
expression passed across his face. At the
same moment, the chief inspector walked
forward.
The two of them stood close to her, surprised
by her immobility, trying to see the |
face hidden by the joined hands.
Suddenly alarmed, Maigret touched her i
16
shoulder. And the body tipped over, as if it
bad been balanced on a knife's edge, rolled
to the floor, and lay motionless.
Countess de Saint-Fiacre was dead.
The body had been taken into the sacristy,
where it had been laid on three chairs placed
side by side. The sacristan had run out to get
the village doctor.
As a result, Maigret forgot how unusual
his presence was. He took several minutes to
understand the suspicious inquiry in the
priest's burning eyes.
"Who are you?" the man finally asked.
"How is it that ..."
"Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police
Judiciaire."
He looked at the priest. He was a man of
about thirty-five, with features that were
regular but so solemn that they recalled the
fierce faith of monks of old.
The man was profoundly disturbed. A
somewhat unsteadier voice murmured:
"You don't mean that . . . ?"
They had not dared undress the countess.
• They had vainly held a mirror to her lips.
They had listened for her heart, which was
no longer beating.
^B 'I can't see any wound," was Maigret's
•only reply.!,,,
• 17
He looked around at this unchangeable
scene, in which not a single detail had altered
in at least thirty years. The altar cruets were
in the same place, the chasuble was prepared
for the following Mass, and the altar boy's
cassock and surplice were ready.
The dirty light entering through a Gothic
window was thinning out the rays of an oil
lamp.
It was hot and cold at the same time. The
priest was being assailed by terrible thoughts.
Maigret did not see the full drama of the
situation at first. But memories from his
childhood went on rising to the surface like
air bubbles.
A church in which a crime has been committed
must be newly consecrated by the
bishop. . . .
How could there have been a crime? No.
body had heard a shot. Nobody had approached
the countess. During the whole
Mass, Maigret had scarcely taken his eyes off
her.
And there was no sign of bloodshed, no
visible wound.
"The second Mass is at seven o'clock, isn't
u?"
It. n
It was a relief to hear the heavy footsteps
18
of the doctor, a red-faced fellow, who was
impressed by the atmosphere and looked in
turn at the chief inspector and the priest.
"Dead?" he asked.
He did not hesitate to unbutton the countess's
blouse, while the priest turned his head
away. Heavy steps in the church. Then the
bell, which the ringer had set in motion, sounded: the first bell for the seven o'clock
Mass.
"I can only suppose that heart failure . . .
I wasn't the countess's regular doctor. She
preferred to be attended by a colleague in
Moulins. But I've been called two or three
times to the chateau. . . . She had a very
weak heart."
The sacristy was tiny. The three men and
the corpse could only just fit inside. Two
altar boys arrived, since the seven o'clock
was a High Mass.
"Her car must be outside," said Maigret.
"We must arrange for her to be taken home."
He could still feel the priest's anguished
gaze weighing on him. Had he guessed something?
While the sacristan, with the chauffeur's
help, was carrying the body to the car, he came over to the chief inspector.
"You're sure that ... I have another two
Masses to say. . . . It's All Souls' Day. My
Parishioners are ..."
ar.»~1
19
Since the countess had died of heart failure, wasn't Maigret entitled to reassure the
priest?
"You heard what the doctor said."
"All the same, you came here today, to this
particular Mass. ..."
Maigret made an effort not to seem flustered.

"Just a coincidence. Father. . . . My father
is buried in your graveyard."
Then he hurried out to the car, a very old
one. The chauffeur was cranking the engine, but the doctor did not know what to do. There
were a few people in the square, who could j not figure out what was happening.
"Come with us."
The corpse took up most of the room inside, but Maigret and the doctor squeezed in.
"You looked surprised at what I told you,"
murmured the doctor, who had not yet recovered
his composure. "If you knew the
situation, you might understand. . . . The
countess ..."
He fell silent, glancing at the uniformed
chauffeur, who was driving with an absent- minded
expression. They crossed the sloping
square, which was bordered on one side by
the church built on the hillside, and on the
other by Notre-Dame pond, which, that particular
morning, was a poisonous gray color.
20 '
Marie Tatin's inn was on the right, the first house in the village. To the left was an avenue
of oaks and, in the distance, the dark mass
of the chateau.
The sky looked as cold as an ice rink.
"You know this is going to create some
complications. . . . That's why the priest
looked so upset."
Dr. Bouchardon was a peasant, and the son
of peasants. He was wearing a brown shooting
outfit and high rubber boots.
"I was off duck shooting by the ponds...."
"You don't go to Mass?"
The doctor winked.
"Mind you, that didn't stop my being
on good terms with the old priest. But
this one ..."
They were driving into the park. Now they
could make out the details of the chateau: the
ground-floor windows, covered by shutters, the two corner towers, the only old parts of
the building.
When the car drew up near the steps,
Maigret looked down through the latticed
ground-level windows and caught a glimpse
°f steam-filled kitchens and a fat woman
Plucking partridges.
The chauffeur did not know what to do,
3nd didn't dare open the car doors.
"Monsieur Jean won't be up yet. ..."
? ; f"
21
"Call somebody . . . anybody . . . There
are some other servants in the house, aren't
there?" Maigret's nostrils were moist. It was really
cold. He remained standing in the courtyard
with the doctor, who started filling
a pipe.
"Who is Monsieur Jean?"
Bouchardon shrugged his shoulders and
gave a queer smile. "You'll see."
"But who is he?"
"A young man ... A charming young
man."
"A relative?"
"If you like ... In his own way . . . Oh,
I might as well tell you right away. He's
the countess's lover. Officially, he's her secretary."

Maigret looked at the doctor, remembering
that he had been at school with him. But
. nobody recognized him. He was forty-two.
He had put on weight.
As for the chateau, he knew it as well as
anybody else, especially the outbuildings.
He had to take only a few steps to see the
manager's house, where he had been born.
Perhaps it was these memories that were
disturbing him so much. Especially the memory
of Countess de Saint-Fiacre as he had
22
known her: a young woman who had, for
the country boy he had been, personified all
that was feminine, graceful, noble.
And now she was dead. They had bundled
her like an inanimate object into the car, and they had had to bend her legs. They had
not even buttoned up her blouse, and some
white underclothing was poking out of her
mourning dress.
... a crime will be committed . . .
But the doctor maintained that she had died
of heart failure. What supernatural power
had been able to foretell that? And why call
in the police?
People were running about inside the chateau.
Doors were opening and shutting. A
butler who was only half dressed opened the
main door a little, hesitating to come out. A
man appeared behind him, in pajamas, his
hair tousled, his eyes tired.
"What is it?" he called out.
"The paramour," the cynical doctor
growled in Maigret's ear.
The cook had been told too. She was looking
silently out of her basement window.
Dormer windows were opening at the top of
e house, in the servants' rooms.
"Well, why doesn't somebody carry the
n.
23
countess to her room?" Maigret thundered
indignantly.
All this struck him as sacrilegious, because
it did not tally with his childhood memories.
It made him feel not merely morally, but
physically, sick.
... a crime will be committed . . .
The second bell for Mass was ringing. People
must be hurrying. There were farmers
who came a long way, in light carts. They
had brought flowers to place on the graves.
Jean did not dare to approach. The butler, who had opened the car door, stood there
utterly crushed, without moving a muscle.
"Madame the Countess . . . Madame the
. . ."he stammered.
"Well? . . . Are you going to leave her
there? Eh?"
Why the devil was the doctor smiling so
sarcastically?
Maigret used his authority.
"Come on now! Two men . . . You" --
he pointed to the chauffeur -- "and you" --
he pointed to the butler -- "carry her up to
her room."
While they were reaching into the car, a
bell rang in the hall. (;
"The telephone . . . That's peculiar at this
24
hour?" growled Bouchardon.
Jean did not dare answer it. He seemed to
be in a daze. It was Maigret who rushed to
pick up the receiver.
"Hello . . . Yes, the chateau ..."
A voice that seemed very close said:
"Will you ask my mother to come to the
telephone? She must be back from Mass by
now."
"Who's speaking?"
"Count de Saint-Fiacre . . . But that's
none of your business. Let me speak to
my mother ..."
"Just a minute . . . Will you tell me where
you're calling from?"
"From Moulins . . . But, I tell you ..."
"It would be best if you came over here,"
was all that Maigret said before he hung
up.
Then he had to press against the wall
to let the body, carried by the two servants,
pass by.
The Missal
"Are you coming in?" asked the doctor as
soon as the dead woman had been laid on her
bed. "I need somebody to help me undress
her."
"We'll find a maid," said Maigret.
Jean went up to the next floor and came
down a little later with a woman, about thirty,
who cast frightened glances around her. "Go away!" the chief inspector growled at
the other servants, who asked for nothing
better.
He held Jean back by the sleeve, looked him
up and down, and led him into a window
recess.
"What terms are you on with the countess's
son?"
"But ... I ..."
The young man was thin, and his striped
pajamas, which were of questionable cleanliness, gave him little presence. His eyes
avoided Maigret's. He had a nervous habit
of pulling at his fingers as if he wanted to
lengthen them.
26
"Listen," the chief inspector broke in,
"we're going to speak plainly, to save time."
Behind the heavy oak door of the bedroom
they could hear footsteps coming and going, the creaking of bedsprings, and orders being
given in an undertone to the maid by Dr.
Bouchardon. The dead woman was being undressed.

"What exactly is your position at the chateau?
How long have you been here?"
"Four years . . ."
"How did you come to know Countess de
Saint-Fiacre?"
"I ... that is to say, I was introduced
to her by common friends. . . . My parents
had just been ruined by the crash of a
small bank in Lyons. ... I came here
as confidential secretary, to look after the
countess's personal affairs."
"I beg your pardon, but what were you
doing before?"
"Traveling. I wrote some art criticism.
..."
Maigret did not smile. The atmosphere
did not lend itself to irony.
The chateau was huge. From the outside
it was fairly impressive. But the interior
looked as seedy as the young man's pajamas. Dust was everywhere, on old things with°ut
any beauty, on a host of useless objects.
[:': w'"
The curtains were faded.
And on the walls, paler patches showed that
pieces of furniture had been removed. The
best pieces, obviously, those that had some
value.
"You became the countess's lover?"
"Everybody is free to love whomever
. . ."
"Idiot!" growled Maigret, turning his
back.
As if things were not obvious. You had only
to look at Jean. You had only to breathe the
atmosphere of the chateau for a few moments, and catch the servants5 glances.
"Did you know that her son was coming?"

"No . . . What does that matter to me?"
His eyes still avoided Maigret's. With his
right hand he tugged at the fingers of his
left.
"I'd like to get dressed. It's cold. ... But
why are the police bothering about . . . ?"
"Yes, go and get dressed."
Maigret pushed open the bedroom door, and avoided looking toward the bed, on
which the dead woman lay completely
naked.
The bedroom resembled the rest of the
house. It was too big, too cold, cluttered with
old bric-a-brac. About to lean on the marble
28
mantelpiece, Maigret noticed that it was
broken.
"Have you found anything?" he asked
Bouchardon. "Just a moment. Will you please
leave us, mademoiselle?"
He closed the door behind the maid, went
and pressed his forehead against the window,
and let his gaze wander over the park, which
was carpeted with leaves and gray mist.
"I can only confirm what I told you earlier.
Death was due to sudden heart failure."
"Brought on by ... ?"
A vague gesture from the doctor, who
threw a blanket over the corpse, joined
Maigret at the window, and lighted his
pipe.
"Perhaps a shock . . . Perhaps the cold
. . . Was it cold in the church?"
"Far from it. You didn't find any sign of
a wound, of course?"
"No."
"Not even the barely perceptible trace of
a prick?"
"I thought of that. . . . No, nothing at all
• . . And the countess hasn't imbibed any
poison. ... So you see it would be difficult
to maintain ..."
Maigret was frowning. To the left, under
the trees, he could see the red roof of the
manager's house, where he had been born.
.??»••••
29
"In a few words, what is life at the chateau
like?" he asked in an undertone.
"You know as much about that as I do.
. . . One of those women who are models
of good behavior up to the age of forty or
forty-five. It was then that the count died,
and the son went to Paris to continue his
studies." "And here?"
"Secretaries came, and stayed for longer or
shorter periods. You've seen the latest."
"The fortune?"
"The chateau is mortgaged. Three out of
every four farms have been sold. Every now
and then an antique dealer comes to collect
some piece that is still worth something."
"And the son?"
"I can't say I know him very well. They
say he's quite a fellow."
"Thank you."
Maigret started to leave the room. Bou-
, chardon followed him.
"Between us, I'd like to know how you
happened to be in the church this very morning."

"Yes, it's strange."
"I have a feeling that I've seen you before
somewhere."
"That's possible." ^ And Maigret hurried along the hallway.
30
His head felt a little empty, because he
bad not slept long enough. Perhaps he had
caught cold, too, at Marie Tatin's inn. He
caught sight of Jean going downstairs,
dressed in a gray suit but still wearing
slippers. At the same moment, a car without
a muffler drove into the chateau courtyard.
It was a little sports car, bright yellow,
long, narrow, and uncomfortable. A man in
a leather coat burst into the hall the next
moment, pulling off his cap and shouting:
"Hello! Anybody here? Is everybody still
asleep?"
Then he caught sight of Maigret, whom he
looked at inquisitively.
"What is it?"
"Shh ... I must have a word with you."
Near the chief inspector stood Jean, pale,
uneasy. As he passed. Count de Saint-Fiacre
gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder and
said jokingly:
"Still here, you little bastard?"
He did not seem to bear him any malice
— just to despise him profoundly.
"There's nothing wrong, is there?"
"Your mother died this morning, in
church."
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was thirty years
i°ld, the same age as Jean. They were the same
|-». .r»--
— 31
height, but the count was broad-shouldered
Uk and a little heavy. Everything about him,
especially his cap and leather coat, breathed
. . life and gaiety. His bright eyes were cheerful
of and mocking.
foi It needed Maigret's words to make him
ari frown.
sti "What did you say?"
"Come this way."
"Well, I'll be damned. . . . And I was ...»
sh "You were . . . ?"
"Nothing . . . Where is she?"
He was dazed, dumbfounded. In the bedev
room, he raised the blanket just enough to
an see the dead woman's face. There was no
so explosion of grief. No tears. No dramatic gestures.
Just three murmured words.
"Poor old girl!"
sai Jean had come as far as the door, and the
other, catching sight of him, snapped at him:
"Get out!"
clj He was becoming agitated. He paced up and
down the room and bumped into the doctor.
hg "What did she die of, Bouchardon?"
ini "Heart failure. Monsieur Maurice . . . But
the chief inspector may know more about
that than I do."
so The young man swung around to face
Maigret. .f "You're from the police? . . . What. ?" |
32
"Could we have a few minutes' conversation?
... I'd like to take a little walk up the
road. . . . You're staying here, aren't you, Doctor?"
'The fact is, I was going shooting."
"Well, you can go shooting another day."
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre accompanied
Maigret, gazing thoughtfully at the ground
in front of him. When they reached the main
drive of the chateau, the seven o'clock Mass
had just finished, and the parishioners, more
of them than at the first Mass, were coming
out and forming groups in the square. A few
people were going into the graveyard, only
their heads showed above the wall.
As the sky grew lighter, the cold became
sharper, probably on account of the north
wind, which was sweeping the dead leaves
from one side of the square to the other, making them spin around like birds over
Notre-Dame pond.
Maigret filled his pipe. Wasn't that his chief
reason for taking his companion outside? Yet the doctor had smoked even in the dead
woman's room, and Maigret was in the habit
of smoking anywhere.
But not in the chateau! That was a place ^art, which throughout his youth had rep- rented all that was most inaccessible.
"Today the^count called me into his library
to work with him," his father used to say, with a hint of pride in his voice.
And the boy that Maigret had been at that
time used to gaze respectfully, from a distance, at the baby carriage being pushed
around the park by a nursemaid. The baby
in it was Maurice de Saint-Fiacre.
"Does anybody stand to benefit from your
mother's death?"
"I don't understand. The doctor just said
»»
He was uneasy. His gestures were jerky.
He snatched the piece of paper Maigret held
out to him, the one that foretold the crime.
"What does this mean? Bouchardon spoke
of heart failure, and ..."
"Heart failure that somebody foresaw a
fortnight in advance!"
Some farmers were looking at them from
a distance. The two men approached the
church, walking slowly, following the train of
their thoughts.
"What were you coming to the chateau for
this morning?"
"That's exactly what I was thinking," said
the young man. "You asked me just now
. . . Well, yes, there is somebody who stands
to benefit from my mother's death. . . .
Me!" .^
He was not joking. His forehead was fur34
rowed. He greeted by name a man going by
on a bicycle.
"Since you're from the police, you must
understand the situation already. . . . Besides,
that fellow Bouchardon is sure to have
talked. . . . My mother was a poor girl. My
father died. I went away. Left by herself, I
can well believe, her mind might have become
slightly unhinged. . . . First of all, she spent
most of her time at church. Then ..."
"The young secretaries . . . ?"
"I don't think it was what you think, and
what Bouchardon would like to suggest.
Nothing immoral . . . Just a longing for
affection, the urge to look after somebody
. . . The fact that those young men took
advantage of that to go further . . . Mind
you, that didn't prevent her from remaining
very pious. She must have had some terrible
attacks of conscience, torn as she was between
her faith and that . . . that ..."
"You were saying that you stand to benefit?"

"You know that there isn't very much of
our fortune left. And people like that young "lan you've seen have hearty appetites. . . . l^t's say that in another three or four years ^ere'd have been nothing left at all."
He was bareheaded. He ran his fingers
| "^ough his hair. Then, looking straight at
Ef- ''Pf
Maigret, he added, after a pause:
"The only thing left for me to tell you
is that I was coming here today to ask my
mother for forty thousand francs. I need
those forty thousand francs to cover a check
that will otherwise bounce. . . . You see how
everything ties up."
He broke a twig off a hedge they were
passing. He seemed to be making a violent
effort to prevent himself from being overwhelmed
by what had happened.
"And to think that I've brought Marie Wassilief
with me!"
"Marie Vassilief?"
"My mistress . . . I've left her in bed in
Moulins. . . . She's quite capable of hiring
a car and driving over here. . . . That would
top everything, wouldn't it?"
They were just putting out the lamp in
Marie Tatin's inn, where a few men were
drinking rum. The bus from Moulins was about to leave, half empty. I
"She didn't deserve it!" said the count, in
a thoughtful voice.
"Who?"
"Mother."
At that moment there was something
childlike about him, in spite of his height and
slight paunchiness. Perhaps he was at last on
the verge of tears.
36
The two men walked up and down near
the church, covering the same ground over
and over again, sometimes facing the pond, sometimes with their backs to it.
"Look, Chief Inspector . . . Nobody could
have killed her. ... Or else I don't understand."

Maigret thought about that, and so hard
that he forgot about his companion. He
was recalling every little detail of the first
Mass:
The countess in her pew . . . Nobody had
gone near her. She had taken Communion.
Next she had knelt down with her face in
her hands. Then she had opened her missal.
A little later, her face was in her hands
again. ...
"Excuse me for a moment ..."
Maigret went up the steps and entered
the church, where the sacristan was preparing
the altar again. The bell ringer, a
rough peasant wearing heavy hobnailed
boots, was straightening the chairs.
The chief inspector walked straight up to
the stalls, bent down, then called the sac|ristan.B
"Who
picked up the missal?"
"What missal?"
["The countess's ... It was left here."
"You think so?"
wv37
"Come here," Maigret said to the bell
ringer. "You haven't seen the missal that was in this seat, have you?"
"Me?"
Either he was an idiot or he was pretending
to be. Maigret was on edge. He caught
sight of Maurice de Saint-Fiacre standing at the far end of the nave.
"Who has been near this stall?"
"The doctor's wife sat here at the seven
o'clock Mass."
"I thought the doctor wasn't a believer?"
"He may not be. But his wife ..."
"Well, you tell the whole village that
there'll be a big reward for whoever brings
me the missal."
"At the chateau?"
"No. At Marie Tatin's."
Outside, Maurice de Saint-Fiacre fell in
beside him again.
"I can't make head or tail of this missal business."
"Heart failure, wasn't it? That may have
been brought on by a severe shock. And it
happened shortly after Communion. In other
words, after the countess opened her missal
. . . Suppose that in that missal ..."
But the young man shook his head, looking
discouraged. ?:"I
can't imagine any piece of news capa-
38
i^ip of shocking my mother to that extent.
Besides, it would be ... so horrible."
He was breathing hard. He stared gloomily
at the chateau.
"Let's go and have a drink."
He did not head for the chateau, but for
the inn, where his entry created a certain
embarrassment. The four farmers drinking
there suddenly felt no longer at home. They
greeted the count with a respect mingled with
fear.
Marie Tatin ran out of the kitchen, wiping
her hands on her apron. She stammered:
"Monsieur Maurice . . . I'm still upset by
the news. . . . Our poor countess ..."
She at least was crying. She probably wept
jbuckets every time anybody died in the village.

"You were at the Mass too, weren't you?"
she said, calling Maigret to witness. "When
I think that none of us noticed anything! It
was here that I heard ..."
It is always disconcerting in such circumstances
to show less grief than do people
who ought to be indifferent. The count listened
to these expressions of sympathy, try^ to hide his impatience, and, to keep it
from showing, he took a bottle of rum from we shelf and filled a couple of glasses. His
shoulders were shaken by a shudder as he
VSy---
39
drained his glass in one gulp. He said to
Maigret:
"I think I caught cold coming here this
morning."
"Everybody here has a cold. Monsieur
Maurice," Marie Tatin said.
And, to Maigret:
"You ought to take care too. I heard you
coughing last night. ..."
- The farmers left. The stove was red hot.
"A day like today!" said Marie Tatin.
Because of her squint, it was impossible to
say whether she was looking at Maigret or
the count.
"Won't you have something to eat? I was
so upset when I heard . . . that I didn't even
think of changing my dress."
She had simply tied an apron over the black
dress she put on only to go to Mass. Her hat
had been left on a table.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre drank a second
glass of rum, and looked at Maigret as if to
ask him what to do.
"Come along!" said the chief inspector.
"Don't you want to have lunch here? I've
killed a chicken and ..."
But the two men were already outside. In
front of the church were four or five carts,
the horses were tied to trees. Heads could
be seen moving beyond the low wall of the
40
oraveyard. The yellow car in the courtyard
°f the chateau was the only patch of bright
color.
"Has the check been cashed?" asked
Maigret.
"It will be tomorrow."
"Do you do much work?"
A pause. There was the sound of their
footsteps on the frozen road, the rustle of
dead leaves carried along by the wind,
horses snorting.
"I'm exactly what people mean by a goodfor-nothing.
I've done a little of everything.
. . . Look, the forty thousand ... I wanted
to start a film company. Before that, I was
a partner in a broadcasting business."
A dull explosion sounded on the right,
beyond Notre-Dame pond. They caught
sight of a hunter striding toward the animal
he had killed, which his dog was worrying
at.
"That's Gautier, the estate manager," said
the count. "He must have gone out shooting
before ...»
Then all of a sudden he lost his self-control,
j stamped his foot, made a face, and nearly let
°ut a sob.
Poor old girl!" he muttered, drawing back
^s Ups. "It's . . . it's so disgusting. ... And
l^t little bastard Jean, who ..."
v
41
As if by magic, they suddenly saw the
fellow pacing up and down the courtyard
of the chateau with the doctor, obviously
talking excitedly, since he was gesticulating
with his thin arms.
In the wind, every now and then, they could
catch the scent of chrysanthemums.
••»,'
J
42
The Altar Boy
There was no sunshine to mar the picture, no mist, either, to blur the contours. Everything
stood out with cruel clarity: the tree
trunks, the dead branches, the gravel, and, above all, the black clothes of the people
who had come to the graveyard. The whites, on the other hand -- tombstones, starched shirt fronts, old women's bonnets -- took on
an unreal, deceptive tone: whites that were
too white and seemed out of place.
Without the dry north wind, which cut
your cheeks, you might have thought you
were under a rather dusty glass cloche.
"I'll see you again later."
Maigret left Count de Saint-Fiacre outside
the gate of the graveyard. An old woman, sitting
on a little stool she had brought with
her, was trying to sell oranges and chocolate.
The oranges were big and ripe and frozen. They set the teeth on edge and rasped the
throat, but, when he was ten years old, Mai- t>ret ^ed to eat them greedily all the same,
°ecause they were oranges.
w"
43
He turned up the velvet collar of his coat.
He did not look at anybody. He knew that
he had to turn left, and that the grave he was
looking for was the third after the cypresses.
All around, flowers had been placed on
graves. The day before, women had washed
some of the tombstones with soap and water.
The railings had been repainted.
HERE LIES EVARISTE MAIGRET
"Excuse me! No smoking ..."
The chief inspector scarcely realized that he
was being spoken to. Finally he stared at the
bell ringer, who was also the graveyard
keeper, and thrust his lighted pipe into his
pocket.
He could not manage to think about one
thing at a time. Memories flooded in on him, memories of his father, of a friend who had
drowned in Notre-Dame pond, and of the
child at the chateau in his handsome baby
carriage . . .
People looked at him. He looked at them.
He had already seen those faces. But before, that man who had a child in his arms, for example, and was accompanied by a
pregnant woman, had been a boy of four
or five. . . . <7
Maigret had no flowers. The tombstone
44
g dirty. He walked out of the graveyard ^ a bad mood, making a whole group turn
around as he muttered:
"The first thing we must do is find the
missal!"
He did not feel like returning to the chateau.
Something there distressed him, made him
indignant even.
Admittedly, he had no illusions about humanity.
But he was furious that his childhood
memories had been sullied. The countess, above all, whom he had always seen as a
noble, beautiful person, like a picture-book
heroine.
Now she turned out to be a crazy old woman
who kept a succession of gigolos.
And not even that. It wasn't frank and
open. The notorious Jean pretended to be
her secretary. He was not handsome, and
not very young either.
And the poor old woman, as her son said, was torn between the chateau and the church.
And the last Count de Saint-Fiacre was
going to be arrested for passing a bad check.
B
WSlewi
Somebody was walking in front of Maigret
with a gun on his shoulder, and the chief ^spector suddenly realized that he was coving toward the estate manager's house.
e bought he could recognize the figure
45
he had seen from a distance, in the fields.
A few feet separated the two men when
they reached the yard, where some hens were
nestling against a wall, sheltering from the
wind, their feathers quivering.
"Hey!"
The man with the gun turned around.
"You're the Saint-Fiacres' manager, aren't
you?"
- "And who are you?"
"Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police
Judiciaire."
"Maigret?"
The manager was struck by the name, but
could not place it.
"You've heard the news?"
"I've just been told. I was out shooting.
. . . What are the police . . . ?"
He was a short, sturdy, gray-haired man
with skin furrowed by fine, deep wrinkles,
and eyes that looked as if they were lying
in ambush behind thick brows.
"They told me that her heart ..."
"Where are you going?"
"Well, I can't go into the chateau with my
boots caked with mud and my gun. ..."
A rabbit's head was hanging from the
game bag. Maigret looked at the house
toward which they were walking.
"Well, well! They've changed the kitchen."
46
a suspicious gaze was fixed on him.
"A g00^ fifteen years ago," growled the
manager.
"What s your name?
"Gautier ... Is it true that the count arrived
without . . ."
All this was hesitant, reticent. And when
Gautier pushed open the door, he did not ask
Maigret to come in.
The chief inspector walked in just the same,
and turned right toward the dining room, which smelled of biscuits and old brandy.
"Come in here for a moment. Monsieur
Gautier. They don't need you over there. And
I have a few questions to ask you. ..."
"Hurry up!" said a woman's voice in the
kitchen. "They say it's awful. ..."
Maigret felt the oak table, which had corners
decorated with carved lions. It was the
same table as in his time. It had been sold
to the new manager when his father died.
"You'll have something to drink?"
Gautier took a bottle out of the sideboard, Perhaps to save time.
'What do you think of that Monsieur Jean?
. Now I come to think of it, what's his ^name?"
"Metayer . . . Quite a good Bourges fam- ^ . . ."
Did he cost the countess a lot?"
«i

v^
47

Gautier filled glasses with brandy but remained
stubbornly silent.
"What does he have to do at the chateau?
As manager, you probably look after everything."

"Everything!"
"Well?"
"He doesn't do anything. ... A few
personal letters ... In the beginning, he
claimed to be able to make money for the
countess, thanks to his financial knowledge.
He bought some shares, which dropped in
value in a few months. ... He maintained
that he'd get everything back thanks to
a new photographic process one of his
friends had invented. That cost the countess
about a hundred thousand francs, and the
friend disappeared. ... The latest thing
was some business of printing with negatives.
... I don't know anything about it. Something
like photogravure, but cheaper . . ."
"Jean Metayer was very busy, in fact. . . ?"
"He bustled around a lot for nothing.
... He wrote some articles for the Journal
de Moulins, and they were forced to accept
them because of the countess. It was there
that he tried out his negatives, and the
editor didn't dare throw him out. . .
Good health!"
Suddenly anxious, he asked:
48
"Nothing's happened between him and
the count?"
"Nothing at all."
"I suppose it's just a coincidence, your being
here. . There's no reason you should be, seeing it was a case of heart disease. ..."
The trouble was that it was impossible to
meet the manager's eyes. He wiped his mustache
and moved toward the next room.
"Will you excuse me while I change? I was
going to go to Mass, and now ..."
"I'll see you later," said Maigret as he left.
He had no sooner shut the door than he
heard the woman, who had remained invisible, ask:
"Who was that?"
They had laid paving stones in the yard
where he used to play marbles on packed
earth.
The square was full of groups of people
in their Sunday best, and organ music was
coming from the church. The children, in
their best clothes, did not dare play. And
everywhere handkerchiefs were being
brought out of pockets, red noses being olown noisily.
Snatches of conversation reached Mai- ^et's ears:
^L He's a policeman from Paris. ..."
R- . '»?»
r 49
"They say he's come about the cow that
died last week at Mathieu's. ..."
A young man dressed up in a navy-blue
suit with a red flower in his buttonhole, his face well scrubbed, his hair shining with
brilliantine, ventured to say to the chief
inspector:
"They're waiting for you at Tatin's about
the boy who stole . . ."
And he nudged his companions, holding
back a laugh, which burst out when he
turned his head away.
He was telling the truth. At Marie Tatin's,
the atmosphere was now warmer and thicker.
Pipes and pipes of tobacco had been smoked.
A family of peasants at one table was eating
food they had brought from the farm and
drinking large bowls of coffee. The father
was cutting a dried sausage with his pocketknife.

The young men were drinking lemonade,
and the old men brandy. Marie Tatin was
kept trotting around without cease.
In one corner, a woman stood up when
the chief inspector came in and took a
step toward him, worried, hesitant, moistlipped.
She had one hand on the shoulder
of a small boy, whose red hair Maigret
recognized.
"Are you the chief inspector?"
50
Everybody looked in her directiom.
"First of all. Chief Inspector, I war-nt to tel you our family has always been honxest . .
even though we're poor. You understand?
When I saw that Ernest ..."
The boy, very pale, stared straighit ahead
without showing the slightest emotioon.
"Was it you who took the missal?^" asked
Maigret, bending down.
No reply. A wild, piercing look.
"Answer the chief inspector."
But the boy did not open his mouith. In a
flash, the mother gave him a slap thaat left a
red mark on his left cheek. The body's head
shook for a moment, his eyes becanr-e somewhat
moist, his lips trembled, but: he did
not budge.
"Are you going to answer, curses of rm
life?" ;.
And to Maigret she said:
"There's today's children for yo-*u! . . ,
He's been crying for months to gert me to
buy him a missal. A thick one, like the cure's!
Have you ever heard the like? . . . SSo when I heard about Madame the Countess's missal,
I thought right away. . . Besides, I was sui- Prised to see him come home between the
second Mass and the third. Usually he eats at: the rectory. ... I went up to rL-is room
^d I found this under the mattress-"
in""
-- 51
Once again the mother's hand descended
on the boy's cheek. He made no attempt to
ward off the blow.
"When I was his age, I couldn't even read.
But I'd never have had enough wickedness
in me to steal a book."
There was a respectful silence in the inn.
Maigret had the missal in his hands.
"Thank you, madame."
He was in a hurry to examine it and started |
to walk to the far end of the room.
"Chief Inspector ..."
The woman, calling him back, looked em- m barrassed.
"They told me there was a reward. . . .
It isn't because Ernest ..." ,
Maigret handed her twenty francs, which I she put carefully away in her bag. Then
she pulled her son toward the door, grumbling:

"As for you, you thief, you just wait!" ^
Maigret's eyes met the boy's. It was a
matter of only a few seconds. Still, they both
understood that they were friends.
Perhaps it was because Maigret, in his
childhood, had longed for -- and never possessed
-- a gilt-edged missal with, not only
the Ordinary of the Mass, but also all the
liturgical texts, in two columns, in Latin and
French.
52
* * *
"What time will you be coming back to
eat?" a! don't know."
Maigret nearly went up to his room to
examine the missal, but the memory of the
countless drafts the roof let in made him
choose the main road.
It was while walking slowly toward the
chateau that he opened the book, whose
binding was embossed with the Saint-Fiacre
coat of arms. Actually, he did not open it;
the missal opened itself at a page where a
piece of paper had been inserted.
Page 221. Prayers after Communion.
What was there was a piece of newspaper
cut out jaggedly, which immediately struck
the eye as most peculiar, because it had been
so badly printed.
PARIS, 1 November. A dramatic suicide
took place this morning in a flat on Rue
de Miromesnil that had been occupied
for several years by Count de Saint-Fiacre
and his mistress, a Russian woman named
m Marie V . . .
After telling his mistress that he was ashamed of the scandalous conduct of a certain member of his family, the count
J^ed a bullet into his head and died a few
If-*
53
Once again the mother's hand descended
on the boy's cheek. He made no attempt to
ward off the blow.
"When I was his age, I couldn't even read.
But I'd never have had enough wickedness
in me to steal a book."
There was a respectful silence in the inn.
Maigret had the missal in his hands.
"Thank you, madame."
He was in a hurry to examine it and started
to walk to the far end of the room.
"Chief Inspector ..."
The woman, calling him back, looked embarrassed.

"They told me there was a reward. . . .
It isn't because Ernest ..."
Maigret handed her twenty francs, which
she put carefully away in her bag. Then
she pulled her son toward the door, grumbling:

"As for you, you thief, you just wait!"
Maigret's eyes met the boy's. It was a
matter of only a few seconds. Still, they both understood that they were friends.
Perhaps it was because Maigret, in his
childhood, had longed for -- and never possessed
-- a gilt-edged missal with, not only
the Ordinary of the Mass, but also all the
liturgical texts, in two columns, in Latin and
French.
52
* * *
"What time will you be coming back to
eat?"
"I don't know."
Maigret nearly went up to his room to
examine the missal, but the memory of the
countless drafts the roof let in made him
choose the main road.
It was while walking slowly toward the
chateau that he opened the book, whose
binding was embossed with the Saint-Fiacre
coat of arms. Actually, he did not open it,
the missal opened itself at a page where a
piece of paper had been inserted.
I Page 221. Prayers after Communion.
What was there was a piece of newspaper
cut out jaggedly, which immediately struck
the eye as most peculiar, because it had been
so badly printed.
PARIS, 1 November. A dramatic suicide
took place this morning in a flat on Rue
de Miromesnil that had been occupied
for several years by Count de Saint-Fiacre
and his mistress, a Russian woman named
» Marie V . . .
After telling his mistress that he was
ashamed of the scandalous conduct of a
certain member of his family, the count
fifed a bullet into his head and died a few
53
minutes later without recovering consciousness.

We understand that a distressing family
drama lies behind this incident and that
the person mentioned above is none other
than the dead man's mother.
A goose wandering onto the road stretched
out toward Maigret a beak wide open in
fury. The bell was in full peal, and the congregation
was shuffling slowly out of the
little church, from which the odors of incense
and extinguished tapers were escaping.
Maigret had thrust the bulky missal into
his coat pocket, where it made a bulge, when
he stopped to examine the fateful scrap of
paper.
The murder weapon! A newspaper clipping
two inches by three!
Countess de Saint-Fiacre went to the first
Mass and knelt down in the stall that for
two centuries had been reserved for members
of her family.
And here was the weapon that killed her.
Maigret turned the piece of paper over and
over. It was really peculiar. Among other
things, he noticed the alignment of the type,
and felt sure that the printing had not been
done on a rotary press, used for a real newspaper.

54
This was just a proof, pulled by hand.
That was obvious from the fact that the other
side of the paper bore exactly the same text.
The murderer had not taken the trouble
to produce a finished piece of work, or
else had not had enough time. Besides, would
the countess be likely to think of turning
the piece of paper over? Wouldn't she have
died first from shock, indignation, shame, and fear?r
The expression on Maigret's face was terrible, because he had never before encountered
a crime so cowardly and so clever at
the same time.
And the murderer had had the nerve to
warn the police!
Suppose the missal had not been found ... .
Yes, that was it! The missal was not intended
to be found! Without it, it would be
impossible to talk about a crime, or to accuse
anybody. The countess had died from heart
failure.
He turned around suddenly, and arrived
at Marie Tatin's to find everybody talking pbout him and the missal.
"You know where little Ernest lives?"
"Third house after the grocer's, on the
High Street ...»
He hurried there. It was a small single-story
house. There were photographs of the father
55
and mother above the sideboard. The woman
who had already changed out of her Sunday
best, was in the kitchen, which smelled of
roast beef.
"Is your son here?"
"He's changing. There's no point in getting
his best clothes dirty. You saw what a scolding
I gave him! A child who has nothing but
good examples in front of him and ..."
She opened the door and shouted:
"Come here, you bad boy!"
He caught sight of the boy in his underpants, trying to hide.
"Let him get dressed," said Maigret. "I'll
talk to him then."
The woman went on preparing the dinner.
Her husband was presumably at Marie
Tatin's having his aperitif.
At last the door opened, and Ernest came
in, with a sly look on his face, wearing his
weekday suit, the trousers of which were too
long.
' "You want him to go out with you?" exclaimed
the woman. "But in that case . . .
Ernest, go and put your best suit on, quick!"
"It isn't worth it, madame. Come along, boy."
The street was empty. All the life of the
district was concentrated in the square, in
the graveyard, and at Marie Tatin's.
56
^Tomorrow I'm going to give you an even
thicker missal, with the first letter of every
word in red."
The boy was dumbfounded. So the chief
inspector knew that there were missals with
red letters, like the one on the altar.
"But you're going to tell me honestly
where you found this one. I won't scold
you."
It was strange to see the old peasant mistrust
awakening in the boy. He said nothing.
He was already on the defensive.
"Was it on the prayer stool that you found
it?"
Silence. There were freckles on his cheeks
and the bridge of his nose. His thick lips
were trying to keep still.
"Don't you understand that I'm your
friend?"
"Yes . . . You gave Ma twenty francs."
"Well, what of it?"
The child took his revenge.
"When we got back home, Ma told me
she'd only slapped me for show, and she gave me fifty centimes."
The boy knew what he was doing, all right. What was going on inside that head of his, which was too big for his thin body?
"And what about the sacristan?" ^L^He didn't say anything to me."
^^ E f .»''
_ K 57
"Who took the missal from the prayer
stool?"
"I don't know."
"Where did you find it?"
"Under my surplice, in the sacristy ... I
was supposed to go and have breakfast in
the rectory, but I'd forgotten my handkerchief.
When I moved my surplice, I felt something
hard."
"Was the sacristan there?"
"He was in the church, putting out the
candles. . . . You know, a missal with red
letters costs an awful lot."
In other words, somebody had taken the
missal from the prayer stool and had hidden
it for the time being in the sacristy, under
the altar boy's surplice, obviously with the
intention of coming back for it later.
"Did you open it?"
"I didn't have time.... I wanted my boiled
egg. Because on Sunday ..."
"I know."
And Ernest wondered how this man from
Paris could possibly know that on Sunday he
had an egg and some bread and jam at the
rectory.
"You can go."
"Is it true that I'll have . . . ?"
"A missal, yes . . . Tomorrow. Goodbye."
Maigret held out his hand, and after a
58
moment's hesitation the boy gave him his.
"I know you're just joking," he said, however,
as he went off.
A crime in three stages: somebody had set
the article, or had it set, on a linotype, which
could be found only in a newspaper office or
a big printing plant.
Somebody had slipped the piece of paper
into the missal, after choosing the page.
And somebody had collected the missal
and hidden it temporarily under the surplice
in the sacristy.
Perhaps the same man had done everything.
Perhaps each operation had been carried out
by a different person. Or perhaps the same
person had been responsible for two of the
three operations.
As he was passing in front of the church, Maigret saw the priest come out and walk
toward him. He waited for him under the
poplars, near the woman selling oranges and
chocolate.
"I'm going to the chateau," he said as he
joined the chief inspector. "That's the first
time I've celebrated Mass without knowing ^what I was doing. The idea that a crime ..."
"It was a crime, all right," said Maigret
laconically.
. They walked along in silence. Without say- m^ a word, the chief inspector held out the
I'
59
scrap of paper to his companion, who read
it and handed it back.
They walked another hundred yards without
speaking.
"One evil leads to another. . . . But she
was a poor creature."
They had to hold on to their hats because
the wind was increasing 	in violence.
"I wasn't strict enough," the priest added
in a gloomy voice.
"You?"
"Every day she would come back to me.
She was ready to return to the ways of the
Lord. . . . But every day, over there ..."
There was a bitter note in his voice.
"I refused to go there, and yet it was my
duty."
They nearly stopped, because two men
were walking along the main drive of the
chateau and they were bound to meet them.
They recognized the doctor, with his little
brown beard, and, beside him, the tall, thin
'figure of Jean Metayer, still talking excitedly.
The yellow car was in the courtyard.
Maigret guessed that Metayer did not dare
go back to the chateau as long as Count
de Saint-Fiacre was there.
There was an ambiguous light over the village.
The situation was ambiguous too, with
all these vague comings and goings.
60
"Come along!" said Maigret.
The doctor must have said the same thing
to the secretary, who tagged behind him.
V^hen he was near enough he said:
"Good morning. Father. You know, I'm
in a position to reassure you. Sinner though
I am, I can imagine your distress at the idea
that a crime may have been committed in
your church. Well, no ... Science is categorical.
Our countess died from heart failure."
Maigret had gone up to Metayer.
"I'd like to ask you a question."
He could sense that the young man was on
edge, almost panting with fear.
"When did you last go to the Journal de
Moulinsy
"I . . . Wait a minute ..."
He was about to answer, but his suspicions
were aroused. He darted a distrustful look
at the chief inspector.
"Why do you ask that?"
"It doesn't matter why."
"Am I obliged to reply?"
"You are free to say nothing."
Perhaps not exactly the face of a degenerate, but it was an anxious, tormented face.
And quite exceptional nervousness, capable
of interesting Dr. Bouchardon, who was still diking to the priest.
^». .r»-
61
"I know that I'm the one who's going to
suffer! But I'm not going to take it lying
down. ..."
"Of course you're not going to take it lying
down. ..."
"First, I want to see a lawyer. I'm entitled
to that. . . . Besides, by what right are

you
v


"Just a minute! Have you ever studied
law?"
"For two years."
He was trying to regain his composure, to
smile.
"Nobody has made a charge, and nobody
has been caught in flagrante delicto. So
you've no right to . . ."
"Very good! Ten out of ten!"
"The doctor says ..."
"And I maintain that the countess was
killed by the dirtiest swine imaginable. Read
this!"
Maigret held the printed piece of paper
out to him. Stiffening suddenly. Metayer
looked at him as if he was going to spit
in his face.
"You said . . . ? I won't stand for ..."
The chief inspector, gently putting his
hand on his shoulder, said:
"But, my poor young man, I haven't said
anything yet, to you. Where's the count?
62
. Read that, even so. You can give it back
to me later."
A gleam of triumph shone in Metayer's
eyes. "The count is discussing money with the
manager. You'll find them in the library."
The priest and the doctor were walking
in front, and Maigret heard the doctor say:
"Certainly not. Father. It's human! Terribly
human! If only you'd studied a little
physiology instead of poring over the writings
of Saint Augustine."
The gravel crunched under the feet of the
four men, who soon began slowly climbing
the steps, which the cold had made whiter
and harder than usual.
63
_ 4 _
Marie Vassilief
Maigret could not be everywhere. The chateau
was huge. That was why he had only a vague
idea of the morning's events.
It was the time when, on Sundays and holidays, the peasants put off the moment of
going home, savoring the pleasure of being
in a well-dressed group in the village square
or in a cafe. Some were now drunk. Others
were talking in loud voices. And the children, in their best clothes, were looking admiringly
at their fathers.
In the chateau, Jean Metayer, looking rather
yellow, had gone upstairs alone. He could be
heard walking up and down.
"If you'll come with me," the doctor said
to the priest, luring him in the direction of
the dead woman's bedroom.
On the ground floor, a wide hallway ran
the entire length of the building, lined by
doors. Maigret could hear a hum of voices.
He had been told that Count de Saint-Fiacre
and the manager were in the library.
He decided to go there, opened the wrong
64
I door, and found himself in a drawing room.
The door leading from it to the library was
open. In a gilt-edged mirror he caught sight
of the reflection of the young man, sitting on
a corner of a desk, looking utterly depressed, and the manager solidly planted on his stocky
legs.
"You ought to have known there was no
point in insisting," Gautier was saying. "Especially
for forty thousand francs!"
"Who answered the telephone when I
called?"
"Monsieur Jean, of course."
"So he didn't even pass the message on to
my mother?"
Maigret coughed and walked into the library.

"What telephone call are you talking
about?"
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre answered, without
any embarrassment:
"The one I made the day before yesterday
to the chateau. As I've already told you, I
needed some money. I wanted to ask my
mother for it. But it was that. . . that Monsieur
Jean, as they call him here, who answered
the telephone."
"And he told you there was no chance? Yet
you came here all the same. ..."
^The manager was watching the two men.
c .*»"'
65
The count had left the desk on which he
had been perched and faced Maigret.
"Anyway, I didn't bring Gautier here to
talk about that," he said irritably. "I haven't
concealed the situation from you. Chief
Inspector. Tomorrow a charge will be laid
against me. It's obvious that, with my mother
dead, I'm the only natural heir. I therefore
asked Gautier to get me forty thousand
francs for tomorrow morning. Well, it seems
that's impossible."
"Quite impossible!" repeated the manager.

"Apparently nothing can be done without
the permission of the lawyer, who won't
gather the interested parties together until
after the funeral. And, quite apart from
that, Gautier says it would be difficult to
raise forty thousand francs on the property
that remains."
He started walking up and down.
"It's clear, isn't it? All cut and dried!
I may even be prevented from attending
the funeral. . . . But now I think of it,
one more question. You spoke of a crime.
. . . Is it . . . ?"
"No charge has been laid, and probably
no charge will be laid," said Maigret. "So no
case will come before the courts."
"Leave us alone, Gautier."
66
As soon as the manager had reluctantly left
the room, he went on:
"A crime, really?" "A crime that doesn't concern the police."
"Explain yourself . . . I'm beginning
»»
to .
But just then they heard a woman's voice
in the hall, accompanied by the deeper voice
of the manager. The count frowned and
made for the door, which he pulled open
abruptly.
"Marie! What the ... ?"
"Maurice! Why won't they let me in? ...
It's insufferable! I've been waiting for hours
at the hotel."
She spoke with a pronounced foreign accent.
It was Marie Vassilief, who had arrived
from Moulins in an old taxi, which they
could see in the courtyard.
She was tall and very beautiful, with hair
perhaps artificially fair. Noticing that Maigret
was looking at her closely, she started
talking volubly in English, and the count
answered her in the same language.
She asked him if he had any money. He
replied that there was no longer any question
of that, that his mother was dead, and ihat she must go back to Paris, where he would join her soon. _ At this she asked, with a laugh:

r-	^
67

"What shall I use for money? I haven't even
enough to pay for the taxi!"
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre began to panic. His mistress's shrill voice rang through the chateau, giving a scandalous quality to the scene.
The manager was still standing there in the
hallway.
"If you stay here, I'm staying with you,"
declared Marie Vassilief.
Maigret told Gautier:
"Pay the driver and send him away."
The confusion was growing. Not a material, reparable confusion, but a moral confusion, which seemed to be contagious. Gautier, too, was losing his composure.
"I must have a word with you. Chief Inspector,"
the young man said.
"Not now."
He gestured toward the aggressively elegant
woman, who was walking around the library
and drawing room as if she were compiling
an inventory.
"Who is this silly portrait of, Maurice?" she
exclaimed with a laugh.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Maigret
saw Metayer go past, wearing a loose coat and
carrying a bag. Metayer must have guessed
he would not be allowed to leave, because he
stopped outside the library door and waited.
"Where are you going?",
68
I "To the inn . . . It's more fitting that I
Hshould . "
To get rid of his mistress, Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre took her off toward the right
wing °^ the cnateau- The two continued
talking in English.
"Is it true that it would be impossible to
raise a loan of forty thousand francs on the
chateau?" Maigret asked the manager.
"It would be difficult."
"Well, do it anyway, by tomorrow morning
at the latest."
The chief inspector was reluctant to leave.
After hesitating, he decided to go upstairs.
There, a surprise was waiting for him. While
downstairs everybody was bustling about
aimlessly, order had been restored in Count
ess de Saint-Fiacre's bedroom.
It no longer had the ambiguous, sordid
| atmosphere of that morning. It was no longer
even the same body. The dead woman, clothed in a white nightdress, was stretched
out on her fourposter in a peaceful, dignified
| attitude, her hands folded on a crucifix.
» There were lighted tapers, holy water, and
! a sprig of boxwood in a bowl.
Bouchardon looked at Maigret as he came
in and seemed to be saying:
"Well, what do you think? Nice work, isn't
it?"
I h ^'
l 69
The priest was praying, moving his lips
silently. He remained alone with the dead
woman when the other two left.
The groups in the square had thinned
out. Through the curtains in the windows of
nearby houses, families could be seen sitting
at their meal.
For a few seconds, the sun tried to penetrate
the layer of clouds, but the next moment
the sky turned gray again and the trees
trembled more than before.
Jean Metayer, at the inn, was installed in
the corner near the window and was eating
automatically, looking at the empty road.
Maigret had taken a seat at the other end of
the room. Between the two of them was a
family from a neighboring village who had
arrived in a truck. They had brought their
own food, and Marie Tatin was serving them
drinks.
The poor woman was upset. She could no
longer make head or tail of what was hap.
pening. Usually she rented an attic room only
from time to time, to a workman who came
to carry out repairs at the chateau or on a
farm.
And now, besides Maigret, she had a new
guest: the countess's secretary.
She did not dare ask questions. All morning
she had heard frightening stories, told by
70
her customers. Among other things, she had
heard mention of the police.
"I'm very much afraid the chicken is overcooked,"
she said as she served Maigret.
Her tone of voice was the same in which
she would have said:
"I'm afraid of everything! I don't know
what's happening! Mother of God, protect
me!"
The chief inspector gazed at her tenderly.
She had always had this same timid, sickly
look.
"Do you remember, Marie, the ..."
She opened her eyes wide and moved as
though to protect herself.
"... business of the frogs?"
"But . . . Who . . . ?"
"Your mother sent you to pick mushrooms
in the meadow beyond Notre-Dame porid.
There were three small boys playing there.
They took advantage of a moment when
you were thinking of something else and replaced
the mushrooms in the basket with
frogs. And all the way home you were frightened
because things were moving ..."
She had been looking at him closely and
Inow stammered:
"Maigret?"
'Shh! Monsieur Jean has finished his
chicken and is waiting for the next course."
mw. °
VV^
N
71
^2
Mane Tatin changed. She was more agitated
than before, but seemed to have moments
of confidence.
How funny life was! Years and years with- ^ out the slightest incident, without anything
happening to relieve the daily monotony. And
then, all of a sudden, incomprehensible events, dramatic happenings, things such as you did
not even read about in the papers!
Now and then, while waiting on Jean
Metayer and the farmers, she darted a conspiratorial
glance at Maigret. When he had
finished his meal, she said shyly: ,
"You'll have a glass of brandy, won't you?" '
"You used to say to in the old days, Marie!"
She laughed. No, she did not dare to any
more.
"But you haven't had any lunch!"
"Yes, I have! I never stop eating in the
kitchen. A mouthful now ... a mouthful
later ..."
A motorcycle went by. Maigret caught
a glimpse of a young man who looked better
dressed than most of the inhabitants
of Saint-Fiacre.
"Who's that?" I
"Didn't you see him this morning? It's
Emile Gautier, the manager's son."
"Where is he going?"
"Probably to Moulins . . . He's practically
72
^ty boy. He works in a bank."
People could be seen coming out of their
houses, walking along the road, or making
for the graveyard.
Curiously, Maigret was sleepy. He felt harassed,
as if he had made an exceptional effort.
And this was not because he had got up at
half past five in the morning, nor because he
had caught a cold.
It was the atmosphere that was crushing
him. He felt personally affected by the drama,
disgusted by it.
Yes, disgusted. That was the word for
it. He had never imagined that he would
find his native village in such circumstances.
Down to his father's grave, the tombstone
turned black, and he had been forbidden
to smoke! Facing him at the other end
of the room, Jean Metayer knew he was
being watched and was trying to keep calm
and even to put on a vaguely contemptuous
smile.
"A glass of brandy?" Marie Tatin asked him
too.
"No, thank you. I never touch alcohol."
He was well-bred. He made a point of displaying
his good manners at every opportunity.
At the inn, he ate with the same affected
gestures he had used at the chateau.
When he finished eating, he asked:
w1"
73
"Have you a telephone?"
"No, but there's one over there."
He crossed the road and went into the
grocer's shop, run by the sacristan, where a
telephone was installed. He must have asked
for long distance, because Maigret saw him
waiting a long time in the shop, smoking one
cigarette after another.
When he returned, the farmers had left
the inn. Marie Tatin was washing glasses in
readiness for Vespers, which would bring
more customers.
"Who did you just telephone? Remember
that I can find out by asking the operator."
"My father, in Bourges."
His voice was curt, aggressive.
"I asked him to send me a lawyer right
away."
He made Maigret think of a ridiculous little
mongrel which bares its teeth before anyone
even begins to touch it.
"You seem very sure of being bothered."
"I must ask you not to speak to me again
until my lawyer gets here. You can believe
me when I say I'm sorry there's only one
inn in this village."
Did he hear what the chief inspector muttered
as he walked away?
"Cretin! Dirty little cretin!"
And Marie Tatin, without knowing why?
74
felt frightened to remain alone with him.
The day continued to the very end to be
marked by confusion and indecision, probably
because nobody felt qualified to take
command.
Maigret, wrapped in his heavy coat, roamed
around the village. At one time he was seen
in the square in front of the church, at another
in the vicinity of the chateau, where the windows
lighted up one after another.
Night was falling fast. The church was
brightly lighted and vibrating with the sound
of the organ. The bell ringer locked the graveyard
gate.
Groups of people who were scarcely visible
in the darkness consulted one another.
They did not know whether to call at the
chateau to pay their respects to the dead
woman. Two men went off to find out, and
were received by the butler, who did not
know what to do either. There was no tray
ready for callers' visiting cards. He went to
look for Maurice de Saint-Fiacre to ask what
to do. The Russian woman said that he'd gone
out for a breath of air.
She was lying on a bed, fully dressed, smok^g
a cigarette with a cardboard tip.
So the butler shrugged his shoulders and ^t the two callers in.
w
75
This was taken as a signal. After Vespers
there were more consultations.
"Yes, I tell you! Old Martin and young
Bonnet have already been."
Everybody went together, in a procession.
The chateau was poorly lighted. They
walked along the hallway, silhouetted in
turn against each window, pulling their children
along by the hand or shaking them
to stop them from making noise. The stairs
. . . The next hallway . . . Finally, the
bedroom, where these people would never
have set foot before.
There was nobody there but the countess's
maid, who watched the invasion in alarm.
The farm people made the sign of the cross
with a sprig of boxwood dipped in the
holy water. The bolder spirits murmured
in an undertone:
"You'd think she was asleep!"
And others echoed them:
"She didn't suffer."
Then their footsteps sounded on the uneven
floor. The stairs creaked. There were
murmurs of:
"Hush! . . . Hold the banisters tight. . . ."
The cook, in her basement kitchen, could
see only the legs of the people passing by.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre came back while
the house was still full of people. He looked
76
^hem in wide-eyed surprise. The callers
wondered if they ought to speak to him. But
he Just muttered something and went into
Marie Vassilief's bedroom, where he could be
heard talking in English.
Maigret, meanwhile, was in the church. The sacristan, holding the candle extinguisher, was going from taper to taper. The priest was
taking off his vestments in the sacristy.
On both left and right were confessionals, with little green curtains to conceal the penitents.
Maigret remembered the time when
his face had not reached high enough to
be hidden by the curtain.
Behind him, the bell ringer, who had not
seen him, was bolting the main door.
The chief inspector suddenly crossed the
nave and went into the sacristy, surprising
the priest.
"Excuse me. Father, but I would like to
ask you a question."
The priest's regular features wore a solemn
expression, but it seemed to Maigret that his
eyes were shining feverishly.
"This morning, something strange occurred
here. The countess's missal, which ^s on her prayer stool, disappeared, and ^s later found hidden under the altar boy's
^ surplice, in this very room."
Silence -- only the sound of the sacristan's
fe
77
footsteps on the carpet in the church, and
the heavier footsteps of the bell ringer leaving
through a side door.
"Only four people could have done that.
. . . Please forgive me . . . The altar boy
the sacristan, the bell ringer ..."
"And I!"
The voice was calm. The face was lighted
on only one side, by a flickering candle
flame. From a censer a thin wisp of blue
smoke was spiraling toward the ceiling.
"It was ... ?"
"It was I who took the missal and put it
here, until such time ..."
The ciborium, the altar cruets, and the
sanctus bell were in their places, just as
in the days when little Maigret had been
an altar boy.
"Did you know what was inside the missal?"

"No."
"In that case ..."
"I beg you not to ask me any more questions,
Monsieur Maigret. I am under the seal
of the confessional."
By an involuntary association of ideas, the
chief inspector remembered his catechism.
He also remembered the scene he had pictured
when the old cure had told the story
of a priest in the Middle Ages who had al78
F, gd his tongue to be torn out rather than break the seal of the confessional. He saw it again in every detail in his mind's eye, after more than thirty years.
"You know who the murderer is," he murmured,
all the same.
"God knows who he is. ... Excuse me.
I have to go and see a sick person."
They went out through the rectory garden.
A little gate separated it from the
road. Some people who had come from
the chateau were standing a little way off, discussing what had happened.
I "You don't think. Father, that it's your
place to . . ."
But they bumped into the doctor, who said, quietly: u
"Father, don't you think this place is turn1
ing into something of a bawdyhouse? . . .
Somebody ought to try to clean it up, if only
to safeguard the people's morals! . . . Oh, so you're here too. Chief Inspector! Well,
you've done some good work, I must say.
At the moment, half the village is accusing j the young count of ... Especially since that
woman arrived! . . . The manager is going
to see the farmers to collect forty thousand
francs, which, so it seems, are needed to ..."
-- "Oh, go to blazes!"
~^ Maigret walked away. He felt sick at heart.
i-; V
79
Now he was accused of being the cause of
all this trouble. What blunder had he committed?
Indeed, what had he done? He would
have given anything for a dignified atmosphere.

He strode along to the inn, which was half
full, and caught one phrase:
"They say that if he can't find the money, |
he'll go to prison."
Marie Tatin was the picture of misery. She
came and went, a busy little figure moving
around like an old woman, although she was
not more than forty.
"Is the lemonade for you? . . . Who ordered
two beers?"
In his corner, Jean Metayer was writing, raising his head now and then to listen to |
the conversation.
Maigret went over to him. He could not
read the cramped handwriting, but he saw
that the paragraphs were clearly divided,
had only a few corrections, and each was
preceded by a number.
1 ...
2 ...
J
The secretary was preparing his defense
while waiting for his lawyer to arrive.
A few feet away, a woman was saying:
"There weren't any clean sheets, and
80
.,»., had to go and borrow some from
tncy .- ,,
the manager's wife.
pale with drawn features but a determined
look in nls ^^ Metayer wrote down:
4 .
81
--5--
The Second Day
Maigret slept that restless yet voluptuous sleep
you experienced only in a cold country bedroom
that smells of cowshed, winter apples, and hay. Drafts were blowing all around
him. And the sheets were icy, except in the
one spot, a soft, cozy hollow, he had warmed
with his body. So, rolled up in a ball, he
avoided making the slightest movement.
Several times, he had heard Jean Metayer's
dry cough in the next room. Then came
the furtive footsteps of Marie Tatin, getting
up.
He stayed in bed a few minutes longer.
After he had lighted the candle, he didn't
have the courage to wash with the icy water
in the jug. He put off that operation until
later, and went down in his slippers, without
a collar.
Downstairs, Marie Tatin was pouring
kerosene on the fire, which was refusing
to catch. She had her hair in curlers, and
she blushed when she saw the chief inspector
come in. y
82
r^It isn't seven o'clock yet! The coffee isn't
ready!"
Maigr81 nac^ a sma^ worry. Half an hour
earlier, when he was half asleep, he thought
he heard a car driving past. Saint-Fiacre is
not on the main road. Almost the only traffic
is the bus, which goes through the village
once a day.
"The bus hasn't gone, has it, Marie?" "Never before half past eight. And more
often than not, nine o'clock ..."
"Is that the bell for Mass ringing already?"
"Yes. It's at seven o'clock on regular days
in the winter, and six o'clock in the summer.
If you want to warm yourself ..."
She pointed to the fire, which was finally
burning well.
"You really can't bring yourself to call me
| to?"
Maigret could have bitten his tongue off
when he saw a coquettish smile appear on
the poor woman's face.
"The coffee will be ready in five minutes."

^It would not be full daylight before eight
o'clock, and the cold was sharper than the
day before. With his coat collar turned up,
and his hat pulled down, Maigret walked
slowly toward the bright patch of the church. ^t was no longer a holy day. There were
vv"
83
no more than three women in the nave. And
the Mass had something scamped and furtive
about it. The priest went too quickly from
one side of the altar to the other. He turned
around too quickly too, with his arms outstretched, to mumble:
"Dominus vobiscum!"
The altar boy, who was having some difficulty
in following him, said Amen at the
wrong time.
Was panic going to set in again? He could
hear the murmur of the liturgical prayers
and now and then a gasp from the priest as
he got his breath back between two words.
"Ite missa est . . ."
The three women stood up. The priest was
reciting the last Gospel. Had this particular
Mass lasted as much as twelve minutes?
A car drew up in front of the church,
and soon hesitant footsteps could be heard
outside.
Maigret had remained at the back of the
nave, standing right by the door. Consequently, when it opened, the new arrival
found himself literally face to face with the
chief inspector.
It was Maurice de Saint-Fiacre. He was
so surprised that he nearly beat a retreat,
murmuring:
"I beg your pardon ... I ..."
84
vu ^ took a step forward and made an ef^ort ° regain his composure. is ^s over?"
hp W3^.
, ^ ^ obviously on edge. There were rings un . ,,'s eyes, as if he had not slept a wink
ru^' ^nc^ ^v t^61111^ the door, he had brougnt the cold air in with him.
.-,, ^ you come from Moulins?"
.. e ^o men were talking with forced P° 's while the priest was reciting the ^ra^ . ^er the Gospel and the women were s ^i- ^eir missals and picking up their han^ and umbrellas.
tt^ „ <lid you know? Yes ... I ..." onan .»,.
The n we go
,, -^iest and the altar boy had gone into
the sacr'i
, ^Sty, and the sacristan was putting
f ^' ^o tapers, which had been sufficient
tor this y xs
Ontsirt w Mass, . ^ the sky was lighter along the
i " The white walls of the nearest
r>^ °°d out in the half-light. The yellow
car was 4-1 .1 . .1 <. . xthere, near the trees in the square.
, ^iacre looked at Maigret, astonished
c 11 at ^^S nlm unshaven and without
1^0 <- ^ot up early!" murmured the chief
inspector "
s "The ^ £ Moi In train, which is an express, leaves
^t three minutes past seven."
^ ^ ^
85
"I don't understand. . . . You didn't take
the train, seeing that ..."
"You're forgetting Marie Vassilief."
It was all so simple. And so natural. The
presence of the count's mistress could only
be an embarrassment at the chateau. So he
had driven her to Moulins, put her on the
train for Paris, and on his way back had
dropped into the lighted church. ^But Maigret was not satisfied. He was trying
to follow the anxious glances of the
count, who seemed to be waiting for somebody
or to be afraid of something.
"She doesn't look like an easy person to
deal with," hinted the chief inspector.
"She's known better days. So she's very
sensitive. . . . The idea that I might want to
hide our liaison ..."
"Which has been going on for how long?"
"Just under a year . . . Marie doesn't care
about money, but there have been difficult
times."
His gaze had at last settled on one point.
Maigret followed it and caught sight of the
priest, who had just come out of the church.
He had the impression that the two gazes
met and that the priest was as embarrassed
as the Count de Saint-Fiacre.
The chief inspector was about to speak to
him, but with clumsy haste, the priest gave
86
ather curt greeting to the two men and ^ent into the rectory as if he were running
away' "He doesn't look like a country priest."
The count made no reply. Through the
lighted window, they could see the priest sitting
down to his breakfast, and the housekeeper
bringing him a steaming coffeepot.
Some small boys with satchels on their
backs were beginning to make their way to
school. The surface of Notre-Dame pond was
beginning to look like a mirror.
"What arrangements have you made for
..." began Maigret.
The other broke in far too quickly:
"For what?"
"For the funeral. Did anybody watch the
body last night?"
"No. The idea was discussed for a few
moments, but Gautier said that it wasn't
done any more."
They heard the roar of a two-stroke engine
in the courtyard of the chateau. A few moments
later, a motorcycle went by, heading
for Moulins. Maigret recognized Gautier's
son, whom he had seen the day before. He
was wearing a fawn raincoat and a checked
cap.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre did not know what ^ do with himself. He did not dare get back
87
into his car. Yet he had nothing to say to the
chief inspector.
"Has Gautier found the forty thousand
francs?"
"No . . . Yes ... I mean . . ."
Maigret looked at him inquisitively, surprised
to see him so flustered.
"Has he found them or hasn't he? I got
the impression yesterday that he was raising
difficulties about it. Because, in spite of
everything, in spite of all the mortgages
and debts, you'll get much more than that
amount ..." H
The count made no reply. He looked panicstricken,
for no apparent reason. And the
next thing he said had no connection with
the previous conversation.
"Tell me frankly. Chief Inspector, do you
suspect me?"
"Suspect you of what?"
"You know perfectly well. . . . I've got to
know."
. "I have no more reason to suspect you than
anybody else," Maigret replied evasively.
His companion leaped upon this statement.
"Thank you. . . . Well, that's what you
must tell people. You understand? Otherwise, my position is impossible."
"What's the bank at which your check is
going to be presented?" (;
88
"The Discount Bank." a woman was heading for the wash house, nshing a wheelbarrow containing two baskets
f laundry. The priest, in the rectory, was
walking up anc^ down, reading his breviary,
but the chief inspector thought that he kept
darting anxious glances at the two of them.
"I'll join you at the chateau."
"Now?"
"In a little while."
It was clear that Saint-Fiacre did not relish
the idea at all. He got into his car like a condemned
man. And the chief inspector could
see the priest watching him drive away.
Maigret wanted to go and put on his collar
at the very least. Just as he arrived at the
inn, Jean Metayer came out of the grocer's.
He had simply put a coat on over his pajamas.
He looked at the chief inspector with
a triumphant expression.
"A telephone call?"
The young man retorted acidly:
"My lawyer's arriving at ten to nine."
He was now sure of himself. He sent back
some boiled eggs that were underdone and
drummed his fingers on the table.
I From the window of his bedroom, where ue ^d gone to finish dressing, Maigret could see Ae courtyard of the chateau, the sports ^ and Saint-Fiacre, who still did not seem

"p f^'
89

to know what to do. Perhaps he was goin?
to return to the village on foot.
The chief inspector hurried. A few moments
later, he was walking toward the chateau.
The two men met less than a hundred
yards from the church. "Where were you going?" asked Maigret. "Nowhere. I don't know. ..."
"Perhaps to say your prayers in the church?"
These few words were enough to make his
companion turn pale, as if they had a mysterious, terrible meaning.
„ Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was not made for
dramatic events. At first sight, he was a tall, strapping fellow, a magnificently healthy
sportsman. If you looked more closely, you
could see signs of his noble birth. Under the
muscles, which were overladen with fat, there was hardly any energy. He had indeed
probably had a sleepless night, and it seemed
to have taken all the strength out of him.
"Have you had announcements of the
.death printed?"
"No."
"But what about the family ... the local
gentry . . . ?"
The young man lost his temper.
"They wouldn't come! You must know
that! Before, yes. When my father was alive
. . . During the shooting season, there were
90
to thirty guests at a time at the chateau,
^ weeks on end."
Maigret knew that as well as anybody. When there was a shoot, he had often, unknown
to his parents, put on the white
smock of a beater.
"Since then ..."
The count made a gesture that signified:
Things have gone from bad to worse.
The whole district must have talked about
the crazy old woman, ruining the last years
of her life with her so-called secretaries. And
the farms being sold one after the other. And
the son making a fool of himself in Paris.
"Do you think the funeral can be held
tomorrow? . . . You understand, the sooner
this situation comes to an end the better."
A cart full of manure went slowly by, its
big wheels seeming to grind the pebbles on
the road. The morning was grayer than the day before, but with less wind. In the distance, Maigret saw Gautier crossing the
courtyard, coming toward them.
Then a strange thing happened.
"Will you excuse me?" the chief inspector ^d to his companion, and went off in the
direction of the chateau.
He had gone scarcely a hundred yards ^hen he turned around. Maurice de Saint- ^lacre was standing on the doorstep of the

yy
91

rectory. He must already have rung the door- ^B bell. When he saw that he had been caught
he walked away quickly without waiting for
a reply.
He did not know where to go. His whole
bearing showed that he was terribly ill at
ease. The chief inspector reached the manager
who had seen him coming and was waiting
for him with an arrogant air.
"What do you want?"
"Just a piece of information. Have you
found the forty thousand francs the count
needs?"
"No. And I defy anybody to find them
around here! Everybody knows just how
much his signature is worth."
"So?"
"So he'll have to manage as best he can.
It's not my business."
The count was retracing his steps. Maigret
could tell he was longing to take a certain
course of action, but for some reason it was
. impossible. Making up his mind, apparently,
he came toward the chateau and stopped
near the two men.
"Gautier! Come to the library for your instructions."
He turned to go.
"I'll see you later on. Chief Inspector," he
added with an effort. (;
92
"r
When Maigret passed the rectory, he had
the distinct impression that he was being
watched through the curtains. But he could
not be sure, because now that the sun had
risen, the light inside had been put out.
There was a taxi standing outside Marie
Tatin's. Inside the inn, a man of about fifty, immaculately dressed in striped trousers and
a black, silk-edged jacket, was sitting at a
table with Jean Metayer.
H When the chief inspector came in, he
jumped to his feet and rushed forward with
outstretched hand.
"I understand that you are an inspector
from the Police Judiciaire. Allow me to introduce
myself: Maitre Tallier, of the Bourges
bar. . . . Will you have a drink with us?"
Metayer had stood up, but his face showed
that he did not approve of his lawyer's cordiality.

"Innkeeper! Come and take our orders,
please."
In a conciliatory voice he asked:
"What will you have? In this cold weather,
what do you say to grog all around? . .. Three
grogs, my good woman."
TT' CC ___
^s good woman" was poor Marie Tatin, ^o was unaccustomed to this manner of ^peaking. ^
93
"I hope. Chief Inspector, that you'll for- ^B
give my client. If I have understood him
rightly, he has shown a certain mistrust of
you. . . . But don't forget that he's a young man of good family, who has nothing on
his conscience, and who was revolted by the
suspicion he felt all around him. . . . The bad
temper he displayed yesterday, if I may say
so, is the best proof of his complete innocence."
With Maitre Tallier there was no need to
open your mouth. He took everything upon
himself, questions and replies, accompanying
his words with suave gestures.
"Of course, I don't know all the details.
... If I have understood correctly. Countess
de Saint-Fiacre died yesterday, during
the first Mass, from heart failure. . . . Later,
I gather, a piece of paper was found in her
missal that suggests her death was due to a
violent shock. . . . Did the victim's son --
who, by a coincidence, happened to be in the
vicinity -- make a charge? . . . No! ... In
any case, I don't think that a charge would
be accepted. The criminal act -- if one took
place -- was not sufficiently clear-cut to justify
the opening of an official inquiry.
"We are in agreement, are we not? No
charge, so no legal action.
"Not that that prevents me from under94
landing the unofficial inquiries you are carrying
out on your own . . .
"It isn't enough for my client not to be
nrosecuted. He must be cleared of all suspicion.

"Let me make myself clear. . . . What,
after all, was his position at the chateau?
That of an adopted son . . . The countess, left on her own, estranged from a son who
caused her nothing but trouble, was comforted
by her secretary's devotion and upright
character.
_ "My client isn't an idler. He didn't just lead ^ carefree life, as he could have done at the
chateau. He worked. He looked for investments.
He even took an interest in recent
inventions.
"Did he stand to benefit in any way from
the death of his benefactress? . . . Need I
say more? ... I think not.
"And that. Chief Inspector, is what I want
to help you to establish.
"I must add that there are a few indispensable
measures that I shall have to take "i conjunction with the solicitor. . . . Jean
Metayer is a trusting soul. He never imagined
that anything of this kind could happen.
His belongings are at the chateau, mixed u? with those of the late countess.
Now, other persons have arrived there
«i
E-- V"
i 95
who probably intend to lay their hanck
„ 'lo
on ...
"A few pairs of pajamas and some old
slippers!" growled Maigret, getting up.
"I beg your pardon?"
During the whole of this conversation
Metayer had been taking notes in a little
notebook. It was he who calmed down his
lawyer, who had stood too.
"Stop! I realized from the very first minute
that I had an enemy in the chief inspector.
And since then I have found that he belongs
indirectly to the chateau. He was born at the
time when his father was the Saint-Fiacres'
estate manager. I warned you, Maitre. It was
you who insisted ..."
It was ten o'clock. Maigret calculated that
Marie Vassilief's train must have arrived
half an hour earlier at the Gare de Lyon.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'll see you later."
"But ..."
He in his turn went into the grocer's across
the road, making the bell ring as he entered.
He had to wait for a quarter of an hour to
get through to Paris.
"Is it true that you're the old manager's
son?"
Maigret was more tired than after ten
normal cases. He felt utterly exhausted, both
morally and physically. .,
96
"You're through to Paris."
"Hello. Is this the Discount Bank? This is
the Police Judiciaire. Some information . . .
V^as a check signed Saint-Fiacre presented
this morning? . . . What's that? ... It was presented at nine o'clock and there were no
funds to meet it? ... Hello? . . . Don't cut
us off, mademoiselle. You asked the bearer
to present it again? . . . Excellent! . . . Ah, that's what I wanted to know. A young
woman, wasn't it? ... A quarter of an hour
ago? . . . And she deposited the forty thousand
francs? . . . Thank you . . .Yes, of
course. Pay it ... No, no, there's nothing
wrong, seeing that the money's there."
Maigret came out of the booth heaving a
weary sigh.
During the night, Maurice de Saint-Fiacre
had found the forty thousand francs and he
had sent his mistress to Paris to deposit them
in the bank.
Just as the chief inspector was leaving the
grocer's, he caught sight of the priest coming
out of the rectory, with his breviary in
his hand, and then heading for the chateau.
He quickened his pace, and almost ran
to reach the door at the same time as the
Priest.
He missed by less than a minute. When he reached the courtyard, the door was closing
l T
r ^ 97
on the cure. And when he rang the bell, he
heard footsteps at the far end of the hallway
going in the direction of the library.
98
--6--
The Two Camps
"I'll see if Monsieur the Count can ..."
But the chief inspector did not give the
butler time to finish his sentence. He went
into the hallway and made for the library
while the butler gave a sigh of resignation.
It was no longer possible to keep up appearances!
People came and went as if they
were in a shop. Things had come to a pretty
pass.
Maigret paused before opening the library
door, but it was in vain; he could not hear
anything. Indeed, that was what made his
entrance rather impressive.
He knocked, thinking that the priest might
be somewhere else. But a voice, very firm and
very clear in the silence of the room, replied
immediately:
"Come in!"
j Maigret pushed open the door, stepping accidentally on a heating vent. Facing him, leaning lightly against a Gothic table, was
Count de Saint-Fiacre.
Beside him, staring at the carpet, the priest
I' ry> 99
remained absolutely still, as if the slightest
movement might blow him away.
What were the two of them doing there
neither speaking nor moving? It would have
been less embarrassing to interrupt a pathetic
scene than to break into a silence so
profound that the human voice seemed to
trace concentric circles in it, like a pebble in
a pool.
Once again, Maigret was conscious of
Saint-Fiacre's weariness. As for the priest, he
looked stunned, and his fingers were now
twitching on his breviary.
"Excuse me for disturbing you."
His words sounded sarcastic, and yet he did
not mean them to be. Was it possible to disturb
people who were as inert as inanimate
objects?
"I have some news from the bank."
The count's gaze moved to the priest and
it was hard, almost furious.
The whole scene continued in the same
'vein. It was as if the characters were chess
players thinking with their foreheads in their
hands, remaining silent for several minutes
before moving a pawn, and then returning to
immobility.
But it was not thought that was immobilizing
them like that. Maigret was convinced that
it was fear of making a false move, a clumsy
100
maneuver. Between the two of them there
was a misunderstanding. And each one was
reluctant to move his pawn, ready to take it
back.
"I came to get instructions for the funeral?"
the priest felt it necessary to say.
That was not true. A pawn had been badly
placed. So badly placed that Count de SaintFiacre
smiled.
"I guessed that you would telephone the
bank," he said. "And I am going to tell you
why I decided to take that step. It was to get
rid of Marie Vassilief, who did not want to
leave the chateau. I persuaded her that it was
absolutely essential."
In the priest's eyes now, Maigret could read
anguish and disapproval.
The poor wretch, he must have been thinking,
he has let himself be caught, he has fallen
into the trap, he is done for.
Silence. Then the scraping of a match and
puffs of smoke that the chief inspector blew
out one after another as he asked:
"Gautier found the money?"
A very short pause.
| "No, Chief Inspector . . . I'm going to tell
you."
It was not on Saint-Fiacre's face that the
drama was being enacted; it was on the
Priest's. He was pale. His lips had a bitter
E^ ^
twist to them. He was making an effort not
to intervene. "Listen, Monsieur ..." He could not stand it any longer. "Would you mind interrupting this conversation
until we've had a talk?"
The same smile as before on the count's
lips. It was cold in the huge room, from
which the finest books in the library had been
sold. A fire had been laid on the hearth, it
just needed a match.
"Have you a lighter or ..." the count said.
While he was bending over the hearth, the priest darted a miserable, beseeching look
at Maigret.
"No," said the count, turning toward the
others. "I'm going to clear up the situation
in a few words. For some reason I don't
know, the cure, who is full of good will, is
convinced that it was I who -- why should
I be afraid of words? -- who killed my
mother! . . . For it was definitely a crime
-- wasn't it? -- even if it doesn't quite fall
within the jurisdiction of the law."
The priest was maintaining the trembling
immobility of an animal which feels some
danger approaching and cannot face it.
"The cure must have been very devoted to
my mother. He probably wished to avoid the
chateau's being involved in a scandal. .
102
T^st night he sent the sacristan to me wit^
forty thousand francs in cash, as well as a little
note."
Without any possible doubt the expression
in the priest's eyes was saying:
"Fool! You are done for!"
"Here is the note," Saint Fiacre went on,
Maigret read in an undertone:
"Be careful. I am praying for you."
Whew! It was like the effect of a gust of
fresh air. Immediately, Maurice de Saint.
Fiacre ceased to feel condemned to one spot,
He also lost his gravity, which was contrary
to his nature. He started walking up and
down, speaking in a lighter voice.
"That, Chief Inspector, is why you saw me
prowling around the church and the rectory
this morning. I accepted the forty thousand
francs — which must obviously be regarded
as a loan — first of all, as I have told you,
to get my mistress out of the way — excuse
me. Father — and then because it would
have been extremely unpleasant to have been
arrested right now. . . . But we are all stand
ing? as if ... Do sit down, please."
He went over to the door, opened it, and
listened to a noise on the floor above.
"The procession is starting again," he
murmured. "I think we'll have to telephone
vP 103
twist to them. He was making an effort not
to intervene. "Listen, Monsieur ..." He could not stand it any longer. "Would you mind interrupting this conversation
until we've had a talk?"
The same smile as before on the count's
lips. It was cold in the huge room, from
which the finest books in the library had been
sold. A fire had been laid on the hearth, it
just needed a match.
"Have you a lighter or ..." the count said.
While he was bending over the hearth,
the priest darted a miserable, beseeching look
at Maigret.
"No," said the count, turning toward the
others. "I'm going to clear up the situation
in a few words. For some reason I don't
know, the cure, who is full of good will, is
convinced that it was I who -- why should
I be afraid of words? -- who killed my
mother! . . . For it was definitely a crime
-- wasn't it? -- even if it doesn't quite fall
within the jurisdiction of the law."
The priest was maintaining the trembling
immobility of an animal which feels some
danger approaching and cannot face it.
"The cure must have been very devoted to
my mother. He probably wished to avoid the
chateau's being involved in a scandal. . .
102
last night he sent the sacristan to me with
fhrtv thousand francs in cash, as well as a little
note." Without any possible doubt the expression
^ the priest's eyes was saying:
"Fool! You are done for!"
"Here is the note," Saint Fiacre went on.
Maigret read in an undertone:
"Be careful. I am praying for you."
Whew! It was like the effect of a gust of
fresh air. Immediately, Maurice de SaintFiacre
ceased to feel condemned to one spot.
He also lost his gravity, which was contrary
to his nature. He started walking up and
down, speaking in a lighter voice.
"That, Chief Inspector, is why you saw me
prowling around the church and the rectory
this morning. I accepted the forty thousand
francs -- which must obviously be regarded
as a loan -- first of all, as I have told you, to get my mistress out of the way -- excuse me. Father -- and then because it would
have been extremely unpleasant to have been
arrested right now. . . . But we are all stand"^ as if ... Do sit down, please."
He went over to the door, opened it, and
listened to a noise on the floor above.
"The procession is starting again," he murmured. "I think we'll have to telephone
k 103
twist to them. He was making an effort not
to intervene. "Listen, Monsieur ..."
He could not stand it any longer. "Would you mind interrupting this conversation
until we've had a talk?"
The same smile as before on the count's
lips. It was cold in the huge room, from
which the finest books in the library had been
sold. A fire had been laid on the hearth; it
just needed a match.
"Have you a lighter or ..." the count said.
While he was bending over the hearth, the priest darted a miserable, beseeching look
at Maigret.
"No," said the count, turning toward the
others. "I'm going to clear up the situation
in a few words. For some reason I don't
know, the cure, who is full of good will, is
convinced that it was I who -- why should
I be afraid of words? -- who killed my
mother! . . . For it was definitely a crime
-- wasn't it? -- even if it doesn't quite fall
within the jurisdiction of the law."
The priest was maintaining the trembling
immobility of an animal which feels some
danger approaching and cannot face it.
"The cure must have been very devoted to
my mother. He probably wished to avoid the
chateau's being involved in a scandal. . . .
102
Last night he sent the sacristan to me with
forty thousand francs in cash, as well as a little
note."
Without any possible doubt the expression
in the priest's eyes was saying:
"Fool! You are done for!"
"Here is the note," Saint Fiacre went on.
Maigret read in an undertone:
"Be careful. I am praying for you."
Whew! It was like the effect of a gust of
fresh air. Immediately, Maurice de SaintFiacre
ceased to feel condemned to one spot.
He also lost his gravity, which was contrary
to his nature. He started walking up and
down, speaking in a lighter voice.
"That, Chief Inspector, is why you saw me
prowling around the church and the rectory
this morning. I accepted the forty thousand
francs -- which must obviously be regarded
as a loan -- first of all, as I have told you,
to get my mistress out of the way -- excuse
me. Father -- and then because it would
have been extremely unpleasant to have been
arrested right now. . . . But we are all standing,
as if ... Do sit down, please."
He went over to the door, opened it, and
listened to a noise on the floor above.
"The procession is starting again," he
murmured. "I think we'll have to telephone
103
to Moulins to have a mortuary chapel installed."
Then he went right on:
"I suppose you understand now? Once I
had accepted the money, it remained for me
to swear to the cure that I was not guilty.
It was difficult for me to do that in front of
you. Chief Inspector, without making you
even more suspicious. . . . That's all! . . .
This morning, as if you could read my
thoughts, you didn't leave me alone for a
moment in the vicinity of the church. Then
the cure came here. I don't yet know why,
because when you came in, he was hesitating
to speak."
His eyes clouded over. To shake off the
bitterness assailing him, he laughed, a painful
laugh.
"It's simple, isn't it? A man who has led
a 'loose' life and signed bad checks . . . Old
Gautier is avoiding me! He too must be convinced
that ..."
Suddenly he looked at the priest with surprise.

"Well, Father, what's the matter?"
The priest, sure enough, looked even
gloomier. His gaze avoided the young man's, and also tried to avoid Maigret's eyes.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre understood, and
exclaimed more bitterly:
"There you are! You still don't believe me.
104
And it's the very man who wants to help me
who is convinced of my guilt."
He went and opened the door again and, forgetting the presence of the dead woman
in the house, called out:
"Albert! . . . Albert! Look sharp, man!
. . . Bring us something to drink."
The butler came in and went over to a
cupboard, from which he took a decanter of
whisky and some glasses. Nobody said anything.
They watched him.
At last, Saint-Fiacre observed with a peculiar
smile:
"In my time, there was no whisky in the
chateau."
"It was Monsieur Jean ..."
"Ah!"
He took a long drink, and then went and
locked the door behind the butler.
"There are lots of things like that which
have changed," he muttered to himself.
His eyes returned to the priest, and the
latter, feeling increasingly ill at ease, stammered:

"Please excuse me, I must go to my catechism
class."
"Just a moment. . . You are still convinced
of my guilt. Father. . . . No, don't deny it.
Priests are no good at lying. . . . But there
are a few points I would like to clear up,

^
105

because you don't know me; you weren't at
Saint-Fiacre in my time, you've only heard
people talking about me. . . . There are no
material clues. The chief inspector, who was
there when it happened, knows something
about it."
"I beg you ..." interrupted the priest.
"No! . . . You won't have anything to
drink? . . . Good health. Chief Inspector!"
His face somber, he pursued his train of
thought with fierce intensity.
"There are lots of people you could suspect.
But it's I whom you suspect, and I
alone. And I keep wondering why. That's
what kept me from sleeping last night. I
thought of all the possible reasons. Now, I
think I know. . . . What did my mother tell
you?"
This time the priest went white.
"I don't know anything."
"Come now. Father. You have helped me, I agree. You have let me have those forty
thousand francs, which will grant me a breathing
space and allow me to give my mother
a decent burial. I thank you with all my heart.
. . . Only, at the same time, you regard me
with suspicion. You pray for me. That's either
too much or not enough. ..."
The voice began to take on a tone of anger
and menace. (:
-f..
's,'
J
106
"I thought of having this talk with you
outside Monsieur Maigret's presence. Well,
now I'm glad that he is here. . . . The more
I think about it, the more I detect something
odd going on."
"Monsieur, I implore you not to torture me
any more."
"And I, for my part. Father, warn you that
you won't leave this room until you have
told me the truth!"
He was a changed man. He was at the end
of his tether, and, like all weak and gentle
people, he had turned unduly fierce.
His voice must have been audible in the
dead woman's room, which was just above
the library.
"You were on good terms with my mother.
I suppose Jean Metayer was one of your
parishioners too. Which of the two said
something? . . . My mother, wasn't it?"
Maigret remembered the words he had
heard the day before:
"The seal of the confessional ..."
He understood the priest's torment, his
anguish, his martyred expression under the
avalanche of Saint-Fiacre's words.
"What did she say to you? ... I knew her,
you know! I was present, so to speak, at the
beginning of the decline. All of us here know
.what her life was like. ..."
%f
107

He looked around with unspoken anger.
"There was a time when people held their
breath when they came into this room, because
my father, the master, was working
here. There was no whisky in the cupboards.
But the shelves were loaded with books, as the cells of a beehive are saturated with
honey. ..."
Maigret remembered that too.
"The count is working. . . ."
And those words were enough to keep
farmers waiting for two hours in the anteroom.

"The count called me into the library. . . ."
Maigret's father was impressed by this
summons, because for him it was an important
event.
"He didn't waste logs, but managed with
a kerosene stove, which he put close to him, to help out the central heating," said Maurice
de Saint-Fiacre.
And, speaking to the distraught priest, he
went on:
. "You never saw that. You saw the chateau
only in decline. . . . My mother, who had
lost her husband . . . whose only son was
making a fool of himself in Paris and never
came here except to ask for money . . . And
then there were the secretaries. ..."
His pupils were so bright that Maigret ex108
pected to see tears begin to flow.
"What did she say to you? . . . She was
afraid of seeing me arrive, wasn't she? . . .
She knew that there would be new debts to
pay off, that something else would have to
be sold to save me once again."
"You ought to calm down," the priest said
in a dull voice.
"Not before knowing . . . whether you
suspected me without knowing me, right
from the start ..."
Maigret intervened.
"The cure hid the missal," he said slowly.
He had by now understood. He was holding
out a helping hand to Saint-Fiacre. He
could imagine the countess, torn between sin
and remorse. Wasn't she afraid of being punished?
Wasn't she a little ashamed in front
of her son?
She was a sick woman, easily worried. And
it was quite possible that under the seal of
the confessional she had said one day:
"I'm afraid of my son. ..."
For she must have been afraid. The money
that went to Jean Metayer and his like was
Saint-Fiacre money, which rightly belonged
to Maurice. Wouldn't he call her to account
for it one day? Wouldn't ..."
Maigret was conscious that these ideas
[Were beginning to occur to the young man,

%t
109

though as yet in a confused form. He was
helping to clarify them.
"The cure cannot say anything if the
countess spoke under the seal of the confessional.
"
That was clear. Saint-Fiacre cut the conversation
short.
"Forgive me. Father, I was forgetting your
catechism class.... Please don't hold it against
me if . . ."
He turned the key in the lock and opened
the door.
"Thank you ... As soon as ... as soon
as possible, I will return the forty thousand
francs to you. I imagine they don't belong to
you. ..."
"I asked Madame Ruinard, the widow of
the former solicitor, for them."
"Thank you . . . Goodbye."
He nearly slammed the door shut, but he
restrained himself, looked Maigret in the eye
and snarled:
"What a rotten business!"
"He wanted to ..."
"He wanted to save me. I know! He tried
to avoid a scandal, to stick the pieces of the
chateau de Saint-Fiacre back together again
as best he could. ... It isn't that. ..."
He poured some whisky.
"I'm thinking of that poor woman. . . .
110
Look, you've seen Marie Vassilief . . . and
all the other women of Paris. They don't
have attacks of conscience. . . . But my
mother! . . . And remember that what she
was looking for, above all else, with that
fellow Metayer, was a chance to give her
affection. . . . Then she would rush off to
the confessional. She must have regarded
herself as a monster. . . . From that to fearing
my vengeance . . . Ha-ha! ..."
His laughter was dreadful to hear.
"Can you see me, an indignant son, attacking
my mother for ... And that priest
didn't understand! He sees life in terms of
the Scriptures. While my mother was alive,
he must have tried to save her from herself.
Once she was dead, he thought it his duty
to save me. . . . But at this moment I'm willing
to bet he's convinced it was I who . . ."
He looked at the chief inspector and asked:
"And what about you?"
When Maigret made no reply, he went on:
"For there has been a crime. A crime only
the filthiest swine imaginable could have
committed. . . . The dirty little coward! . . .
Js it true that the law can do nothing against "him? ... I heard something to that effect
this morning. But I'm going to tell you something, Chief Inspector, and you can take it ,down and use it against me: When I find that
little swine -- well, he'll have to deal with
me, and me alone. . . . And I won't need a
revolver! No. No weapon at all. Nothing but
these two hands ..."
The whisky was obviously making him
more excited. Noticing that, he passed his
hand over his forehead, looked in the mirror, and made a mocking face.
"The fact remains, if it hadn't been for
the priest, I'd be in prison even before the
funeral. I wasn't very nice to him. . . . And
the wife of the former solicitor, who has
paid my debt . . . who is she? ... I can't
remember."
"The lady who always dresses in white
. . . The house that has a gate with gilded
spikes, on the road to Matignon ..."
Saint-Fiacre began to calm down. His outburst
had been only a flash in the pan. He
began to pour another drink for himself, hesitated, then swallowed the contents of his
glass with a grimace of disgust.
. "Can you hear that?"
"What?"
"The local people filing past upstairs . . .
I ought to be there, in deep mourning, redeyed,
shaking their hands with a heartbroken
air. ... Once outside, they start talking."
He added suspiciously:
"Now I come to think of it, if, as you say,
hf
112
the law is not concerned with the case, why
are you staying here?"
"Something new might turn up."
"And if I found the culprit, would you
prevent me from ..."
The clenched fingers were more eloquent
than any words.
"I must leave you," said Maigret. "I have
to go and have a look at the other camp."
"The other camp?"
"The one at the inn. Jean Metayer and
his lawyer, who arrived this morning."
"He's called in a lawyer?"
"He's a thoughtful fellow. This morning
the two sides were lined up like this: at the
chateau, you and the priest, at the inn, the
young man and his qqqadviser."
"You think he could have been capable
. . . ?"
"May I help myself?"
And Maigret drank a glass of whisky, wiped
his lips, and filled his pipe before leaving.
"I suppose you don't know how to use a
linotype?"
A shrug of the shoulders.
"I don't know how to use anything. That's
the trouble."
"You won't, under any circumstances,
leave the village without informing me, will
you?" ^ I w
' ^ *" 113
A grave deep look. And a grave, deep |
voice:
"I give you my word."
Maigret left. As he was about to go down
the outside steps, a man appeared beside
him before he could see where he had come
from.
"Excuse me. Chief Inspector. Could you
spare me a few minutes? . . . I've been told
??

"What?"
"That you practically belong to the house
. . . Your father was in my job. . . . Would
you do me the honor of having a drink with
me in my home?"
The gray-bearded manager led his companion
across the yard. Everything was ready
in his house: a bottle of brandy whose label
proclaimed its great age, biscuits. A smell of
cabbage and bacon was coming from the
kitchen.
' "From what I've heard, you knew the chateau
in very different circumstances. . . .
When I arrived here, the decline was beginning.
There was a young man from Paris who
. . . This is brandy from the days of the late
count. ..."
Maigret stared at the table with the carved
lions, which had brass rings in their mouths.
114
And once again he felt physically and morally
tired. In the old days, he had been allowed
to come into this room only if he was wearing
slippers, because of the polished floor.
"I'm in a rather difficult position. . . .
And it's you I'd like to ask for advice. We
are poor people. You know that the manager's
job doesn't make a man rich.
"Some Saturdays when there wasn't any
money in the safe, I paid the farmers myself.
...
"Other times, I advanced money to buy
cattle the tenants wanted. ..."
"In other words, the countess owed you
money."
"Madame the Countess knew nothing about
business. Money was disappearing all over
the place. ... It was only for indispensable
things that it wasn't available."
"And it was you ..."
"Your father would have done the same, wouldn't he? There are times when you
mustn't let the local people see that the coffers
are empty. I drew on my savings."
"How much?"
"Another glass? ... I haven't counted.
. . At least seventy thousand . . . And
now again, for the funeral, it's I who ..."
A picture imposed itself on Maigret's
mind: ^u
^ ^
115
A grave deep look. And a grave, deep
voice:
"I give you my word."
Maigret left. As he was about to go down
the outside steps, a man appeared beside
him before he could see where he had come
from.
"Excuse me. Chief Inspector. Could you
spare me a few minutes? . . . I've been told
?»
"What?"
"That you practically belong to the house
. . . Your father was in my job. . . . Would
you do me the honor of having a drink with
me in my home?"
The gray-bearded manager led his companion
across the yard. Everything was ready
in his house: a bottle of brandy whose label
proclaimed its great age, biscuits. A smell of
cabbage and bacon was coming from the
kitchen.
"From what I've heard, you knew the chateau
in very different circumstances. . . .
When I arrived here, the decline was beginning.
There was a young man from Paris who
. . . This is brandy from the days of the late
count. . . ."
Maigret stared at the table with the carved
lions, which had brass rings in their mouths.
114
And once again he felt physically and morally
tired. In the old days, he had been allowed
to come into this room only if he was wearing
slippers, because of the polished floor.
"I'm in a rather difficult position. . . .
And it's you I'd like to ask for advice. We
are poor people. You know that the manager's
job doesn't make a man rich.
"Some Saturdays when there wasn't any
money in the safe, I paid the farmers myself.
. . .
"Other times, I advanced money to buy
cattle the tenants wanted. ..."
"In other words, the countess owed you
money."
"Madame the Countess knew nothing about
business. Money was disappearing all over
the place. ... It was only for indispensable
things that it wasn't available."
"And it was you ..."
"Your father would have done the same, wouldn't he? There are times when you
mustn't let the local people see that the coffers
are empty. I drew on my savings."
"How much?"
"Another glass? ... I haven't counted. ... At least seventy thousand . . . And
now again, for the funeral, it's I who ..."
A picture -imposed itself on Maigret's
mind: or ?""
115
His father's little office near the stables, at five o'clock on Saturday. All the people
employed at the chateau, from the linen
maids to the farm laborers, were waiting
outside. And old Maigret, installed behind
the desk covered with green percale, was
arranging coins in little heaps. Each person
passed by in turn and signed his name
or made a cross on the register.
"Now I don't know how I'm going to get
it back. . . . For people like us, it's ..."
"Yes, I understand. . . . You've had the
mantelpiece changed."
"Yes. The old one was wood. Marble looks
better."
"Much better," grunted Maigret.
"You understand, don't you? All the
creditors are going to descend on the chateau.
. . . The count will have to sell.
. . . And with the mortgages ..."
The armchair in which Maigret was sitting
was new, like the mantelpiece, and
must have come from a Paris furniture shop.
There was a phonograph on the sideboard.
"If I didn't have a son, I wouldn't mind, but Emile has his career to think about. . . .
I don't want to rush matters."
A girl walked down the hallway.
"You have a daughter too?"
"No. That's a local girl, who comes in
116
to do the heavy work."
"Well, we'll talk about this another time, Monsieur Gautier. Excuse me. I still have a
lot of things to do."
"Another glass?"
"No, thank you. You said about seventyfive
thousand, didn't you?"
He left, his hands in his pockets, threaded
his way through flocks of geese, and walked
along beside Notre-Dame pond, where the
water was no longer lapping. The church clock
struck noon.
At Marie Tatin's, Jean Metayer and the
lawyer were eating. They were having sardines, fillets of herring, and sausage, as hors
d'oeuvres. On the next table were glasses that
had contained their aperitifs.
The two men were in high spirits. They
greeted Maigret with sarcastic glances and
winked at each other. The lawyer's briefcase
was closed.
"I hope you've at least found some truffles
for the chicken," said Maitre Tallier.
Poor Marie Tatin! She had found a tiny
can of truffles at the grocer's, but she could
not manage to open it, though she did not
dare admit this.
"Yes, I've found some, monsieur."
"Then hurry up! The air here makes a man
terribly hungry."
It was Maigret who went to the kitchen
and, with his penknife, opened the can while
the woman with the squint stammered in an
undertone:
"I don't know what to say ... I ..."
"Be quiet, Marie!" he growled.
One camp . . . Two camps. . . Three
camps?
He felt the need to make a joke, in order
to forget the realities of the situation.
"By the way, the priest asked me to bring
you three hundred days' indulgence. To count
against your sins."
And Marie Tatin, who did not understand
the joke, gazed at her burly companion with
a mixture of fear and affectionate respect.
118
Meetings at Moulins
Maigret had telephoned to Moulins to order
a taxi. He was surprised at first to see one
arrive barely ten minutes after his telephone
call, but as he was making for the door,
the lawyer, who was just finishing his coffee,
intervened.
"Excuse me! That's ours. But if you want
a lift . . ."
"No, thank you."
So Jean Metayer and the lawyer left first,
in a big car that still bore the coat of arms
of its former owner. A quarter of an hour
later, Maigret went off in his turn, and on
the way, while he was chatting with the
driver, he looked at the countryside.
The scenery was monotonous: two rows
of poplars along the road, and plowed fields
stretching away as far as the eye could see,
with here and there a rectangular thicket or
the blue-green eye of a pond.
The houses were for the most part just
cottages. That was understandable, since
there were no small landowners.
f
^
119
Nothing but big estates, one of which, that
of the Duke de T------, contained three villages.

The Saint-Fiacre estate had covered seven
and a half thousand acres before the successive
sales.
The only means of transport was an old
Paris bus, which had been bought by a farmer.
It covered the distance between Moulins and
Saint-Fiacre once a day.
"This is real country for you!" said the taxi
driver. "It's all right now. But in the depths
of winter ..."
As they drove down the main street of
Moulins, the hands of the clock of SaintPierre
stood at half past two. Maigret asked
the driver to stop in front of the Discount
Bank and paid the fare. Just as he was turning
away from the taxi, to go into the bank,
a woman came out of the building holding
a small boy by the hand.
The chief inspector hurriedly looked into
a shop window, so as not to be noticed. The
woman was a peasant woman in her Sunday
best, her hat balanced on top of her hair. She was walking along in a dignified manner, trailing the boy behind her as though he were
nothing but a parcel.
It was Ernest, the red-haired boy who
served Mass at Saint-Fiacre.
120
The street was crowded. Ernest wanted
to stop at each window, but he was towed
along in the wake of the black skirt. Soon, however, his mother bent down to say something
to him. And, as if it had been decided
in advance, they went into a toy shop.
Maigret did not dare go too close. But he
gathered what was happening from the
whistle blasts that started coming from the
shop. Every imaginable whistle was tried in
turn. Finally, the altar boy must have decided
on a whistle with two notes.
When he came out, he was wearing it on
a string around his neck. His mother pulled
him along again, preventing him from blowing
it in the street.
It was a bank like any other in a small country
town: a long oak counter, five clerks bent
over desks. Maigret made for the section of
the counter marked current accounts, and one of the clerks stood up to serve him.
Maigret wanted to find out the exact state
of the Saint-Fiacres' fortune, and, more important,
what deposits or withdrawals were
made in the last few weeks, or even the last
few days. They might provide him with a
clue.
But for a moment he said nothing, simply
looked at the young man, who maintained a
respectful attitude, showing no sign of impatience.

"Emile Gautier?"
He had seen him go past twice on a motorcycle,
but he had been unable to distinguish
his features. What revealed the bank clerk's
identity to him was a striking resemblance
to the manager of the chateau. Not so much
a detailed resemblance as a resemblance to
the same peasant origins: clear-cut features
and big bones.
The same degree of evolution, more or less, revealed by skin rather better cared for than
that of the farm workers, by intelligent eyes, and by the self-assurance of an "educated
man."
But Emile was not yet a real city person.
His hair, although covered with brilliantine, remained rebellious; it stood up in a point on
top of his head. His cheeks were pink, with
that well-scrubbed look of country yokels on
Sunday morning. '
"That is correct," he said.
He was not at all flustered. Maigret was
sure that he was a model employee, in whom
his manager had complete trust, and who
would soon obtain promotion.
His black suit was made to measure, but
by a local tailor, in a serge that would never
wear out. His father wore a celluloid collar,
122
but he wore a soft collar, with a ready-tied
tie.
"Do you know me?" Maigret asked.
"No. I suppose you are the police officer
. . ."
"I would like some information about the
state of the Saint-Fiacre account."
"That's a simple matter. I am in charge of
that account, as well as all the others."
He was polite, well mannered. At school, he must have been the teachers' favorite.
"Pass me the Saint-Fiacre account," he
said to a girl clerk sitting behind him.
He let his gaze wander over a big sheet of
yellow paper.
"Is it a summary you want, the amount of
the balance, or some general information?"
At least he was precise.
"Is the account in a healthy state?"
"Come this way, will you? . . . Somebody
might hear us here."
They went to the far end of the room, although
still separated by the oak counter.
"My father must have told you that the
countess was very unmethodical. . . . Time
and again, I had to stop checks that could
not be covered. Mind you, she didn't know
that. . . . She used to make out checks without
worrying about the state of her account.
So when I telephoned to tell her, she would

^
123

get into a panic. . . . This morning, again, three checks were presented, and I am obliged
to return them. I have instructions to pay
nothing until ..."
"The family is completely ruined?"
"Not really. Several farms have been sold.
Those remaining are mortgaged, like the
chateau. The countess owned a block of flats
in Paris, and that used to bring in a small
income. But then, all of a sudden, she would
throw everything off balance. . . . I've always
done the best I could. I've had bills delayed
two or three times. . . . My father ..."
"Has advanced money. I know."
"That's all I can tell you. ... At the moment,
the balance stands at exactly seven
hundred and seventy-five francs. . . . Mind
you, last year's land tax hasn't been paid,
and the collector issued a first warning last
week."
"Is Jean Metayer aware of all this?"
"Yes. Indeed, more than just aware of
it."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing."
"You don't think he's living in the
clouds?"
But Emile Gautier discreetly avoided
making any reply.
"Is that all you want to know?"
124
"Are there any other inhabitants of SaintFiacre
who have an account at this branch?"
"No."
"And nobody has been here today to transact
any business? To cash a check, for example?"

"Nobody."
"And you have been here all the time?"
"I haven't moved from this counter."
He was in no way discomposed. He remained
a good employee answering the
questions of a government official with due
courtesy.
"Would you like to see the manager?
Not that he could tell you any more than I
have ..."
The streetlights were coming on. The main
street was almost as crowded as in a big city, and there were long lines of cars in front of
the cafes.
A procession went by: two camels and a
young elephant carrying advertisements for
a circus installed on Place de la Victoire.
In the grocer's shop, Maigret caught sight
of the red-haired boy's mother, still holding
her son by the hand. She was buying canned
food.
A little farther on, he nearly bumped into
Metayer and his lawyer, both walking along
^ ."125
with a self-important air. The lawyer was
saying:
"... they are obliged to freeze it . . ."
They did not see the chief inspector, but
^ continued on their way toward the Discount
Bank.
People are bound to run into each other
a dozen times in an afternoon in a town
where all the activity is concentrated on a
street five hundred yards long.
Maigret made his way to the Journal de
Moulins. The offices were at the front of
the building: a concrete facade with modern
plate-glass windows holding a lavish display
of press photographs and the latest news,
written in blue pencil on long strips of
paper.
"manchuria. The Havas Agency reports
that . . ."
But to reach the printing plant, Maigret
had to go down a dark cul-de-sac, guided
by the din of the rotary press. In a dismal
room, some men in overalls were working
at tall stone-topped tables. In a glass cage
at the far end were the two linotypes, rattling
like machine-guns.
"The foreman, please ..."
He literally had to yell, over the thunder
of the machines. The smell of ink took him
by the throat. A short man in blue overalls
126
who was arranging lines of type in a form
cupped his hand around his ear.
"Are you the foreman?"
"Makeup man."
Maigret took from his wallet the piece of
paper that had killed the Countess de SaintFiacre,
which had been returned to him. The
man settled steel-rimmed spectacles on his
nose and looked at it, obviously wondering
what this was all about.
"Was this printed here?"
"What?"
Some people went past carrying piles of
newspapers.
"I asked you whether this was printed
here."
"Come with me!"
It was better in the yard — cold, but at
least they could talk in more or less normal
voices.
"What were you asking me?"
"Do you recognize this type?"
"It's Cheltenham nine point."
"From here?"
"Nearly all linotypes have Cheltenham."
"Are there any other linotypes in Moulins?"
"Not in Moulins... but at Nevers, Bourges,
Chateauroux, Autun, and ..."
"Do you notice anything special about this
piece of pacer?"
A V
&. ;-• y>»-;
^ ^ 127
"It's only a proof. Whoever did it wanted
to make it look like a newspaper clipping, didn't they? . . . Somebody once asked me
to do the same thing, for a joke."
"Oh?"
"At least fifteen years ago ... In the
days when we still set the newspaper by
hand . . ."
"And the paper doesn't tell you anything?"

"Nearly all provincial newspapers have
the same supplier. It's German paper. . . .
Will you excuse me? I've got to lock up the
form. It's for the Nievre edition."
"Do you know Jean Metayer?"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"What do you think of him?"
"If you take his word for it, he knows
the business better than we do. He's kind of
crazy. . . . We let him mess around in the
plant because of the countess; she's a friend
of the boss."
' "Does he know how to work a linotype?"
"Hmm! ... He says so."
"Well, would he be capable of setting this
news item?"
"With a good two hours in front of him
. . . and starting the same line over and over
again ..."
"Has he sat down at a linotype recently?"
128
"How do I know? He comes and goes all
the time, bothering us with his pictures. . . .
Excuse me. The train won't wait. And I
haven't locked my form."
There was no point in persisting. Maigret
nearly went back inside, but the frantic activity
discouraged him. Every minute counted
for these people. Everybody was running
around. The porters elbowed him aside as
they dashed toward the gate.
Yet he managed to buttonhole an apprentice, who was rolling a cigarette.
"What do you do with the lines of type
when they've been used?"
"We melt them down."
"How often?"
"Every other day . . . Look! That metal
pot over in the corner . . . Watch out! It's
hot."
Maigret left, feeling weary, perhaps somewhat
discouraged. Darkness had fallen. The
street was bright, brighter than usual, because
of the cold. Outside the tailor's shop, a salesman, who was stamping his feet and
had a cold, was accosting passersby.
"A winter overcoat? ... Fine English cloth, from two hundred francs . . . Come inside!
There's no obligation to buy."
A little farther on, outside the Cafe de
Paris, where billiard balls could be heard

^
129

colliding, Maigret saw Count de SaintFiacre's
yellow car.
He went in, looked around for him and,
failing to see him, sat down on a bench. It
was the smart cafe of the town. On a platform, three musicians were tuning their instruments, after setting out the names of the
next numbers with the help of three pieces
of cardboard, each of which bore a figure.
There was the sound of a voice in the telephone
booth.
"A beer," Maigret told the waiter.
"Light or dark?"
The chief inspector was trying to hear the
voice in the booth. Just then Saint-Fiacre
came out, and the cashier asked him:
"How many calls?"
"Three."
"To Paris, weren't they? . . . Three times
eight is twenty-four. ..."
The count caught sight of Maigret, walked
over quite naturally, and sat down beside
him.
"You didn't tell me you were coming to
Moulins. I'd have driven you over in my
car. It's true it's an open car, and in this
weather ..."
"Did you telephone Marie Vassilief?"
"No. I don't see why I should hide the
truth from you ... A beer for me too, waiter
130
&
K .. Or ... no! Something hot. Grog . . .
I telephoned a certain Monsieur Wolf. . . .
If you don't know him, others at the Quai
des Orfevres are bound to. He's a moneylender.
I've had recourse to him a few times.
. . . I've just been trying to . . ."
Maigret looked at him inquisitively.
"You asked him for money?"
"At any rate of interest he liked! He
refused, incidentally. . . . Don't look at
me like that! I dropped into the bank this
afternoon ..."
"At what time?"
"About three o'clock . . . That young man
and his lawyer were just coming out."
"You tried to withdraw some money?"
"I tried, yes! Now don't imagine that I
want to arouse your pity. There are some
people who get embarrassed by anything
to do with money. I don't. . . . Well, after
sending the forty thousand to Paris and buying
Marie Vassilief's ticket, I was left with
about three hundred francs in cash. I arrived
here without expecting anything like this to
happen. . . . I've got nothing but the clothes
I'm wearing now. ... In Paris I owe a few
thousand francs to the owner of my flat, and
she won't send any of my things. ..."
As he spoke he watched the balls rolling
.across the green cloth of the billiard table.

^
131

The players were humble young men of the
town, who cast envious glances now and then
at the count's elegant suit.
"That's all. I would at least have liked to
be in mourning for the funeral. There isn't
a tailor here who would give me credit for
a couple of days. At the bank, I was told that
my mother's account was frozen and that, in
any case, the balance amounted to just over
seven hundred francs. . . . And do you know
who gave me that agreeable information?"
"Your manager's son."
"Right!"
He drank a mouthful of scalding grog and
fell silent, still looking at the billiard table.
The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, which was given a curious accompaniment
by the sound of the balls.
It was hot. The light in the cafe was rather
dim, in spite of the electric light. It was a
typical provincial cafe, with only one concession
to modern times, a notice advertising Cocktails 6 francs.
Maigret puffed slowly at his pipe. He too
gazed at the billiard table, which was crudely
lighted by lamps with green cardboard shades.
Now and then the door opened, and after a
few seconds a gust of icy air would reach him.
"Let's go and sit at the back ..."
It was the voice of the lawyer from Bourges.
132
He passed by the table where the two men
were sitting, followed by Jean Metayer, who
was wearing white woollen gloves. But both
of them were looking straight ahead. They
did not see Maigret and the count until they
had sat down.
The two tables were facing each other.
There was a slight flush in Metayer's cheeks, and Us voice trembled as he gave his order:
"Hot chocolate."
Saint-Fiacre commented jokingly in an
undertone:
"That's right, darling!"
A woman sat down at an equal distance from the two tables, gave a friendly smile to the
waiter, and murmured:
"The usual!"
He brought her a cherry brandy. She powdered
her face, touched up her lipstick, and
fluttered her eyelids, wondering which table
to direct her gaze toward.
Was it burly, easygoing Maigret she ought
to tackle? Or was it the more elegant lawyer, who was looking her up and down with a little
smile?
"Well, I'll j-ust have to lead the mourners
in gray!" oiur^nured the count. "After all, I
can't very\veU borrow a black suit from the
butler or put on one of my late father's tail
coats!" Si^

f,
133

Apart from the lawyer, who was interested
in the woman, everybody was looking at the
nearest billiard table.
There were three tables. Two were occupied.
There were a few cheers just as the
musicians were finishing their number. And
immediately the sounds of glasses and saucers
could be heard again.
"Three ports!"
The door kept opening and shutting. The
cold air came in and was gradually absorbed
by the prevailing warmth.
The lamps over the third billiard table
lighted up at a gesture from the cashier, who
had the electric switches behind her.
"Thirty points!" r
And speaking to the waiter, the same voice
added:
"A quarter of Vichy . . . No! A strawberry
Vittel ..."
It was Emile Gautier, who was carefully
coating the tip of his cue with blue chalk. ' Then he put the marker at zero. His companion
was the assistant manager of the
bank, a man ten years older, with a waxed j
mustache.
It was only at the third stroke -- which i
he muffed -- that the young man caught sight
of Maigret. He greeted him, looking a little
embarrassed. After that, he was so absorbed
134 I
in the game that he no longer had time to
notice anybody.
"If you're not afraid of the cold, I can give
you a lift back in my car," said Saint-Fiacre. "May I offer you a drink? One aperitif more
or less won't ruin me, you know."
"Waiter!" Metayer called out. "Get me
Bourges seventeen on the telephone."
His father's number! A little later, he shut
himself in the booth.
Maigret went on smoking. He had ordered
another beer. And the woman, possibly because
he was the fattest of the four men, had
finally chosen him. Every time he turned in
her direction, she smiled at him as if they
were old acquaintances.
She could not have known that he was
thinking about "the old girl," as the son
himself called her, who was laid out on the
second floor of the chateau back at SaintFiacre,
with the farmers filing by her and
nudging one another.
But it was not in those circumstances that
he was picturing her. He was seeing her at
a time when there were no cars yet in front
of the Cafe de Paris and nobody drank cocktails
there.
In the park of the chateau, a tall, lithe
thoroughbred, like the heroine of a popular
I novel, besideJhe baby carriage being pushed
135
along by the nursemaid . . .
Maigret was just a youngster, whose hair, like that of Emile Gautier and the red-haired
altar boy, insisted on standing up in a point
on top of his head.
Wasn't he jealous of the count that morning
when the couple left for Aix-les-Bains in
a motorcar (one of the first he had seen) full
of furs and scent? The face behind the veil
was invisible. The count was wearing huge
goggles. It was all like a romantic elopement.
And the nanny held the baby's hand and
waved it in farewell.
Now they were sprinkling the woman
with holy water and the bedroom smelled
of candles.
Gautier circled the billiard table, played
a fancy shot, and counted solemnly, in an
undertone:
"Seven."
He bent down again, pulled off another
shot. The assistant manager with the waxed
mustache said in a sour voice:
"Magnificent!"
Two men eyed each other across the green
cloth: Jean Metayer, to whom the smiling
lawyer was talking incessantly, and Count de
Saint-Fiacre, who stopped the waiter with an
elegant gesture. „
"The same again!" y
136
Maigret was thinking of a whistle, a splendid
bronze whistle with two notes, such as
he had never possessed.
137
--8--
The Invitation to Dinner
"Another telephone call!" sighed Maigret as
he saw Metayer stand up once more.
He followed him with his eyes, noting that
he did not go into either the phone booth or
the toilets. Moreover, the plump lawyer was
now sitting on the very edge of his chair, like
somebody who is wondering whether to get
up. He was looking at Count de Saint-Fiacre.
You might almost have thought that he was
about to venture a smile.
Was it Maigret who was in the way? In any
case, this scene reminded the chief inspector
of certain incidents in his youth, three or four
friends in a cafe together, and two women at
. the other end of the room. The discussions, the hesitations, the waiter you called to entrust
him with a note . . .
The lawyer was in the same state of nervousness.
And the woman sitting two tables
away from Maigret misinterpreted it and
thought that it was she who was responsible.
She smiled, opened her handbag, and powdered
her face.
138
"I'll be back in a moment," the chief inspector
said to his companion.
He crossed the room in the direction
Metayer had taken, and saw a door he had
not noticed before, which led into a wide
hallway with a red carpet. At the far end was
a counter with a big book on it, a telephone
switchboard, and a girl receptionist. Metayer
was talking to her. He left her just as Maigret
moved forward.
"Thank you, mademoiselle . . . You say it's
the first street on the left?"
He made no attempt to hide from the chief
inspector. He did not seem to be embarrassed
by his presence. On the contrary! And there
was a gleam of joy in his eyes.
"I didn't know that this was a hotel," Maigret said to the girl.
"You're staying somewhere else, then? . . .
That's a pity. . . . Because this is really the
best hotel in Moulins ..."
"Haven't you had Count de Saint-Fiacre
staying here?"
She nearly burst out laughing. Then she
became serious all of a sudden.
"What's he done?" she asked with a certain
anxiety. "That's the second time in five minutes
that ..."
"Where did you send the previous inquirer?"
^
hs ^
139
"He wanted to know whether Count de
Saint-Fiacre went out Saturday during the
night. I couldn't tell him, because the night
porter hasn't arrived yet. . . . Then the
gentleman asked if we had a garage, and
he's gone there."
So all that Maigret had to do was follow
Metayer.
"And the garage is on the first street on
the left," he said, a little annoyed in spite of
everything.
"That's right. It's open all night."
Metayer had certainly lost no time, for
when Maigret reached the street in question,
he was coming out of the garage, whistling
to himself. The attendant was eating a snack
in one corner.
"It's for the same thing that gentleman
has just asked you about... the yellow car.
. . . Did anybody come and take it out Saturday
night?"
There was a ten-franc note on the table.
Maigret put down another.
"Yes, about midnight."
"And it was brought back?"
"About three o'clock in the morning."
"Was it dirty?"
"Not really . . . The weather's been dry
lately, you know."
"There were two people, weren't there?
140
A man and a woman ..." "No! A man by himself." "Short and thin?"
"Not at all. A big healthy fellow."
Obviously Count de Saint-Fiacre.
When Maigret went back into the cafe, the
orchestra was playing again, and the first
thing he noticed was that there was nobody
left in the corner where Metayer and his
companion had been sitting.
A few seconds later he spotted the lawyer
sitting in his own seat, next to Count de SaintFiacre.
At sight of the chief inspector he got
up.
"Excuse me. No, do sit down here again, please."
He did not go away, however, but sat down
on the chair opposite. Very nervous, his
cheeks flushed, he was like a man in a hurry
to be finished with a difficult task. His eyes
seemed to be searching for Jean Metayer,
who was nowhere to be seen.
"I want you to understand. Chief Inspector
... I wouldn't have taken the liberty of
.going to the chateau -- that goes without
saying. But since we have been brought together
by chance on neutral territory, if I
may say so . . ."
And he gave a forced smile. After every

<»
141

sentence, he gave the impression of bowing
to the other two and thanking them for their
approval.
"In a situation as painful as this, there is
no point in complicating matters further, as
I told my client, by being unduly sensitive.
. . . Monsieur Jean Metayer understands this
perfectly well. . . . And when you arrived, Chief Inspector, I was saying to Count de
Saint-Fiacre that we asked for nothing better
than to come to an understanding. ..."
Maigret growled:
"Well, I'll be damned!"
And he thought:
You, my good fellow, will be lucky if in
the next five minutes you don't get the hand
of the gentleman you're talking to so suavely
right across your face. . . .
The billiard players went on circling the
tables. As for the woman, she stood up, leaving
her handbag on the table, and went off
toward the back of the room.
There's another who's making a big mistake,
Maigret said to himself. She's just had
a bright idea. Perhaps Metayer left the room
so that he could speak to her outside without
being seen? So off she goes to look for
him. ...
Maigret was right. With one hand on her
hip, the woman was walking up and down,
142
looking for the young man.
The lawyer was still talking.
"There are some very complicated interests
involved, and we, for our part, are
ready ..."
"To do what?" Saint-Fiacre broke in.
"But ... to ..."
He forgot it was not his glass in front of
him, and he drank out of Maigret's to keep
himself in countenance.
"I know that perhaps this isn't the best
place ... or the best moment . . . but remember
that we know better than anybody
else the financial situation of . . ."
"My mother! Go on . . ."
"My client, with a tact that does him honor,
decided to move into the inn. ..."
The poor devil of a lawyer! His words, now that Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was gazing
fixedly at him, were coming from his throat
one by one, as if they needed to be dragged
out.
"You do understand, don't you. Chief Inspector?
. . . We know that there's a will in
the lawyer's keeping. . . . Don't worry! The
count's rights will be respected but Jean
Metayer is a beneficiary. . . . The financial
situation is rather complicated. My client is
the only one who knows all about it. ..." ^BMaigret admired Saint-Fiacre, who was
H ? ^t^i"
^ 143
managing to maintain an almost angelic
composure. There was even a faint smile on
his lips.
"Yes! He was a model secretary," he said
without any apparent irony.
"You must remember that he comes from
a very good family and has had an excellent
upbringing. I know his parents. . . . His
father ..."
"Let's get back to the fortune, shall we?"
It was too good to be true. The lawyer
could scarcely believe his ears.
"Will you allow me to offer you both
drinks? . . . Waiter! The same again, gentlemen?
... As for me, I'll have a lemon
Raphael."
Two tables away, the woman had returned
glumly to her seat; she had failed to find
Metayer and had resigned herself to tackling
the billiard players.
"I was saying that my client is prepared
to help you. There are certain persons whom
'he distrusts. He'll tell you himself that some
rather shady operations have been carried
out by people not overburdened with scruples.
. . . Anyway ..."
This was the most difficult part. In spite
of himself, the lawyer had to swallow hard
before going on.
"You've found the chateau coffers empty.
144
. But it's essential for your late lamented
mother ..."
"Your late lamented mother!" Maigret
murmured admiringly.
"Your late lamented mother," the lawyer
repeated without batting an eyelid. "What
was I saying? . . . Oh, yes! That the funeral
should be worthy of the Saint-Fiacres. . . .
Pending the time when matters can be arranged
in everybody's best interest, my client
will see to it that ..."
"In other words, he will advance the money
necessary for the funeral. Is that what you
mean?"
Maigret did not dare look at the count.
Fixing his gaze on Emile Gautier, who was
making another break, he waited tensely
for the explosion about to take place beside
him.
But no! Saint-Fiacre had stood up. He was
speaking to a new arrival.
"Do sit down at our table, monsieur."
It was Metayer, who had just come in and
to whom the lawyer had doubtless explained
by signs that everything was going well.
| "A lemon Raphael too? . . . Waiter!"
Applause broke out in the room, because
the orchestra's set was over. Once the noise
had died down, the situation was more em- jbarrassing, for voices sounded louder. There
^
145
was now only the click of the ivory balls to
break the silence.
"I told the count, who understands perfectly
..."
"Who is the Raphael for?"
"You came from Saint-Fiacre, didn't you, gentlemen? ... In that case, my car is at
your disposal to take you back. You'll find
it rather a tight fit. I'm giving a lift to the
chief inspector. . . . How much, waiter? . . .
No, please! It's my round."
But the lawyer stood up and was pressing
a hundred-franc note into the hand of the
waiter, who asked:
"All of them?"
"Yes, yes!"
And the count said with his most gracious
smile:
"It's really too charming of you."
Emile Gautier, watching the four of them
leave, making way for each other at the door, was so surprised he forgot to go on with his
break.
The lawyer found himself in front, next to
the count, who was driving. Behind, there was
only just enough room for Metayer beside
Maigret.
It was cold. The headlights were not bright
enough. The car had no muffler, and this
made conversation impossible.
146
Did Maurice de Saint-Fiacre usually drive
at this speed? Or was he taking his little
revenge? The fact remains that he covered
the fifteen miles from Moulins to the chateau
in less than a quarter of an hour, braking on the curves, speeding through
the darkness, and once only narrowly missing
a cart, which was in the middle of
the road and thus forced him to drive up
on the bank.
Their faces were cut by the wind. Maigret
had to grip the collar of his coat in both
hands. They drove through the village without
slowing down. It was as much as they
could do to catch a glimpse of the light in
the inn and then the church spire.
A sudden stop, which threw the occupants
of the car against one another. They were-at
the foot of the steps. The servants could be
seen eating in the basement kitchen. Somebody
was roaring with laughter.
"Will you allow me, gentlemen, to invite
you to dinner?"
Metayer and the lawyer looked at each other
in hesitation. The count pushed them inside ^with a friendly tap on the shoulder.
r
"Come along now . . . It's my turn, isn't
it?"
-- And in the hall he added:
^« "Unfortunately, it won't be very festive."
c ,»--
147
Maigret would have liked to have a few
words with him in private, but the other did
not give him time and opened the door of
the smoking room.
"Will you excuse me for a few moments?
I have some orders to give. Have an aperitif
while you're waiting. You know where the
bottles are, don't you. Monsieur Metayer?
... Is there anything drinkable left?"
He pressed an electric bell push. The butler
was a long time coming, and arrived with his
mouth full and his napkin in his hand.
Saint-Fiacre snatched it from him with a
swift gesture.
"Send for the manager . . . Then get me
the rectory and the doctor's house on the telephone."

And to the others he said again:
"Will you excuse me?"
The telephone was in the hall, which, like
the rest of the chateau, was poorly lighted.
Since there was no electricity in Saint-Fiacre, 'the chateau had to provide its own current, and the generator was too weak. The bulbs, instead of giving off a white light, revealed
reddish filaments, as they do in some streetcars
when they come to a halt.
The hall was full of great patches of dark
shadow in which it was almost impossible to
make out objects.
148
T
"Good evening . . . Yes, I insist. . . . Thank
you. Doctor ..."
The lawyer and Maigret were uneasy. But
they did not dare admit their uneasiness to
each other. It was Metayer who broke the
silence, to ask the chief inspector:
"What can I offer you? I don't think there's
any port left. But there's some whisky. ..."
All the ground-floor rooms were in a row,
separated by wide-open doors. The dining
room first. Then the drawing room. Then the
smoking room, where the three men were
waiting. And finally the library, where the
young man went to get the drinks.
"Good evening . . . Yes . . . Can I count
on you? . . . I'll expect you soon ..."
The count made more calls, then walked
down the hallway running alongside all the
rooms and went upstairs, where his footsteps
stopped in the dead woman's bedroom.
Other, heavier, footsteps sounded in the
hall. A knock came on the door, which opened
'right away. It was old Gautier.
"You wanted to see me?"
Then he noticed that the count was not
there, looked in astonishment at the three
people in the room, and beat a retreat, questioning
the butler outside.
"Soda?" asked Metayer.
_B And the lawyer, full of good will, began
^* -- i»>
^
149
,with a little cough:
"We both of us have queer professions, Chief Inspector. . . . Have you been in the
police force a long time? . . . I've been at
the bar for nearly fifteen years. So you can
imagine that I've been mixed up in the most
astonishing cases. . . . Good health! . . .
Here's to you. Monsieur Metayer. I'm glad, for your sake, about the turn events are taking."

The count could be heard in the hall saying:

"Well, you must find some! Telephone your
son, who is playing billiards at the Cafe de
Paris in Moulins. He'll bring along what's
necessary."
The door opened. The count came in.
"You've found something to drink? . . .
Aren't there any cigars here?"
He looked inquiringly at Metayer.
"Cigarettes. I only smoke ..."
The young man did not finish what he was
saying, but turned his head away in embarrassment.

"I'll bring you some."
"Gentlemen, I hope you'll excuse the very
modest meal you're going to eat. We are a
long way from town and ..."
"Come," said the lawyer, on whom the
whisky was beginning to take effect. "I'm
150
sure it will be excellent. ... Is that a relative
of yours?"
He pointed to a portrait on the smokingroom
wall of a man dressed in a stiff frock
coat, his neck imprisoned in a starched collar.

"That is my father."
"Yes, you take after him."
The servant showed in Dr. Bouchardon, who looked around distrustfully, as if he
suspected a plot of some sort. But SaintFiacre
received him gaily.
"Come in. Doctor ... I presume you know
Jean Metayer. . . . His lawyer; a charming
man, as you'll see ... As for the chief inspector
..."
The two men shook hands, and a few
moments later the doctor growled in Maigret's
ear:
"What have you cooked up here?"
"I haven't. He has."
To retain his composure, the lawyer kept
going to the little table where he had put
his glass, and he did not realize that he was
drinking more than usual.
"This old chateau is an absolute gem. And
what a setting for a film! . . . That's what
I was saying only the other day to the public
prosecutor at Bourges, who loathes motion
pictures. As long as they go on shooting
v^,f ^^
m
151
films in settings that ..."
He was talking too excitedly, and constantly
trying to capture someone's attention.
As for the count, he had gone over to
Metayer and was showing a disturbing affability
towards him.
"The saddest thing here is the long winter
evenings. True . . . In my time, I remember
that my father, too, was in the habit of inviting
the doctor and the priest. . . . They
weren't the same ones as now. But the doctor
was a skeptic, and the conversation always
ended by turning to philosophical subjects.
. . . Well, speak of the devil ..."
It was the priest, with rings under his eyes
and an embarrassed manner, who did not
know what to say and was standing hesitantly
in the doorway.
"Excuse me for being late, but ..."
Through the open doors they could see
two servants laying the table in the dining
room.
"Do offer Father something to drink."
It was to Metayer that the count was
speaking. Maigret noticed that the latter
was not drinking, but the lawyer was well
on the way to being drunk. He was explaining
to the chief inspector:
"A little diplomacy, that's all! Or, if you
like, knowledge of human nature . . . They're
152
about the same age, and both from good
' families. Can you think of any reasons why
they should have failed to hit it off? Aren't
their interests related? . . . The curious
thing --" he laughed, took another gulp of
whisky "-- is that it happened accidentally
in a cafe. There's a lot to be said for those
good old provincial cafes, where you feel as
though you were at home."
They had heard the sound of an engine outside.
A short time later the count went into
the dining room, where the manager was, and
they caught a few words:
V "Both of you, yes. ... If you like . . .
that's an order!"
The telephone rang. The count had rejoined
his guests. The butler came into the smoking
room.
"The undertaker ... He wants to know
when he can bring the coffin."
"Whenever he likes."
"Very well, monsieur."
And the latter said, almost cheerfully:
^B "Shall we go in to dinner? I've had the last
B^ bottles in the cellar brought up. ... After
you. Father . . . We're a little short of
feminine company, but ..."
Maigret tried to hold him back by his
sleeve. The other looked him in the eyes with
a hint of impatience, then disengaged him--
153
self abruptly and went into the dining room.
"I've invited Monsieur Gautier, our estate
manager, and his son, a young man with a
promising future, to share our meal."
Maigret looked at the bank clerk's hair, and, in spite of his uneasiness, he could not
help smiling. The hair was wet. Before coming
to the chateau, the young man had checked
the part, washed his face and hands, and
changed his tie.
"Let's sit down, gentlemen."
And the chief inspector could have sworn
that a sob rose in Saint-Fiacre's throat. It
went unnoticed because the doctor involuntarily
distracted everyone's attention by
seizing a dusty bottle and murmuring:
"So you still have some Hospices de
Beaune 1896? I thought that the last bottles
were bought by the Restaurant Larue and
that ..."
The rest was drowned by the sound of
chairs being moved. The priest, his hands
folded on the tablecloth, his head bent, his
lips moving, said grace.
Maigret surprised Saint-Fiacre's gaze fixed
intently on him.
154
--9--
A Scene from Scott
The dining room was the part of the chateau
that had lost the least of its character, thanks
to the carved paneling that covered the walls
up to the ceiling. Moreover, the room was
high rather than large, and this made it not
only solemn, but also gloomy; guests felt
like they were eating at the bottom of a well.
On each panel were two electric lights, imitation
candles, which even had artificial beads
of wax.
In the middle of the table was a real candelabrum,
with seven branches and seven real
candles.
Count de Saint-Fiacre and Maigret were sitting
face to face, but could see each other only
if they strained their necks to look over the
flames.
On the count's right was the priest, on his
left. Dr. Bouchardon. Chance had placed Jean
Metayer at one side of the table, his lawyer
at the other side. Next to the chief inspector
there was the steward on one hand, Emile
Gautier on the other.

^
155

The butler occasionally advanced into the
light to serve the guests, but as soon as he
took two paces back he was lost in the shadows,
and nothing could be seen of him but
his white-gloved hands.
"Wouldn't you think we were in one of
Walter Scott's novels?"
It was the count who was speaking, in a
casual voice. And yet Maigret pricked up
his ears, he sensed an underlying meaning, guessed something was beginning.
They were only at the hors d'oeuvres. On
the table, all mixed up, were a score of bottles
of red and white wine, clarets and burgundies.
Each person helped himself.
"There's only one detail that is missing," Maurice de Saint-Fiacre went on. "In Walter
Scott, the poor old girl upstairs would suddenly
start screaming."
For a few seconds, everybody stopped eating.
They felt something like a draft of icy
air pass by.
"Incidentally, Gautier, has she been left
alone?"
The manager swallowed hurriedly, and
stammered:
"She ... Yes ... There's nobody in the
countess's room."
"It can't be very cheerful."
At that moment a foot pressed hard against
156
Maigret's, but the chief inspector could not
guess whose it was. The table was a round
one. Each person could reach past the center.
And Maigret's uncertainty was due to continue, since during the evening the little
kicks would follow one another with increasing
frequency.
"Has she received many callers today?"
It was embarrassing to hear him talking
like that of his mother, as if she were alive, and the chief inspector noticed that Metayer
was so upset that he stopped eating and
stared straight ahead, his face more and
more haggard.
"Nearly all the local farmers," came the
reply, in Gautier's deep voice.
Whenever the butler noticed a hand
reaching out toward a bottle, he would step
forward noiselessly. His black arm, with
a white glove at the end of it, would
appear. The liquid would flow. This was
done so silently and skillfully that the
lawyer, already more than a little drunk, admiringly set the operation going three
or four times.
| He followed that arm with fascination, noting that it did not even brush against his
shoulder. Finally he could contain himself
\~o longer. "Mar velous! Butler, you're a wizard, and
^
157
if I could afford a chateau, I'd take you into
my service."
"Well, the chateau will be up for sale soon, and at a low price."
This time Maigret frowned as he looked at
Saint-Fiacre, who had spoken in a strange
voice, casual yet a little theatrical. And there
was something irritating about his remark.
Was he too much on edge? Was this a sinister
form of humor?
"Chicken in half-mourning," he announced
as the butler brought in a dish of chicken
with truffles.
Then he went straight on, in the same lighthearted
voice:
"The murderer is going to eat some chicken
in half-mourning, like the rest of us!"
The butler's arm slipped backward and
forward between guests. The manager's voice
said, in a tone of comic horror:
"Oh, Count ..."
. "Why yes! What is so extraordinary about
that? The murderer is here; that's certain!
But don't let that take away your appetite, Father. The corpse is in the house, too, and
that isn't preventing us from eating. ... A
little wine, Albert, for the cure."
The foot brushed against Maigret's ankle
again. The chief inspector dropped his napkin
and bent down to look under the table,
158
but too late. When he straightened up again, the count, continuing to eat his chicken, was
saying:
"I mentioned Walter Scott just now because
of the atmosphere in this room, but also, and above all, because of the murderer. After
all, this is a funeral wake. . . . The funeral
takes place tomorrow morning, and in all
probability we shall stay together until then.
... It must at least be said to Monsieur
Metayer's credit that he has filled the liquor
cabinet with some excellent whisky. ..."
Maigret tried to remember how much
Saint-Fiacre had drunk. Less, in any case,
than the lawyer, who exclaimed:
"Yes, excellent! There's no doubt about
that. But then my client is the grandson of
vine-growers. ..."
"As I was saying . .. But what was I saying?
. . . Oh, yes! . . . Fill up the cure's glass,
Albert. . . .
"As I was saying, since the murderer's
here, the others find themselves, so to speak,
cast in the role of judges. And that is what
makes our dinner party resemble something
out of Walter Scott.
"Though you must remember that the
murderer in question isn't really in any danger.
Isn't that so. Chief Inspector? ... It isn't
a crime to slip a piece of paper into a missal.
159
"While we are on the subject. Doctor . . .
when did my mother's last attack take
place?"
The doctor wiped his mouth and looked
around him with a disgruntled expression.
"Three months ago, when you wired from
Berlin that you were ill in a hotel room and
that . . ."
"I wanted some cash. That's it!"
"I observed at that time that the next violent
shock would be fatal."
"So that. . . let's see ... Who knew that?
. . . Jean Metayer, of course. I myself, obviously.
Old Gautier, who is almost one of the
family. And you and the cure."
He drank a whole glass of Pouilly, then
grimaced.
"This is just to explain to you that, logically
speaking, we can nearly all be considered
suspects. ... If the idea amuses you ..."
It was as if he were deliberately choosing
the most shocking words he could.
"If the idea amuses you, we can go on to
examine the case of each person separately.
. . . Let us begin with the cure: Had he
anything to gain by killing my mother? . . .
You are going to see that the answer is not
as simple as it may appear. I leave the question
of money to one side."
The priest was choking with indignation
160
and hesitating over whether to leave the
table.
"The cure had nothing to hope for in that
respect. But he is a mystic, an advocate, almost
a saint. He has an odd parishioner whose
conduct is a source of scandal. Sometimes she
rushes to church like the most fervent of the
faithful, but at other times she brings scandal
to Saint-Fiacre... . No, don't make that face, Metayer. We're all men here. We are, if you
like, engaged in advanced psychology. . . .
"The cure has such fierce faith that it
might push him to extreme measures. Remember
the times when sinners were burned
to purify them . . . My mother is at Mass.
She has just taken Communion. She is in a
state of grace. . . . But, very soon, she is
going to fall back into her sinful ways and
be a source of scandal once more. . . .
"Whereas, if she dies a holy death, there
in her pew . . ."
"But..." began the priest, who, with tears
in his eyes, was holding on to the table.
"Don't take offense. Father. We are simply
talking about psychology. I want to show
you that the most austere people can be
suspected of the worst outrages. ... If we
go on now to the doctor, I'm in a more difficult
position. He isn't a saint. And, fortunately
for him, he isn't even a savant. If he were,

^,.
161

he might have put the piece of paper in the
missal as an experiment, to test the resistance
of a weak heart. ..."
The sound of forks had slowed to such an
extent that it had nearly dropped to nothing.
And the guests' eyes were fixed, uneasy, even
haggard. Only the butler was unmoved, and
went on filling the glasses in silence, with the
regularity of a metronome.
"You look gloomy, gentlemen. Is it really
not possible for us, as intelligent people, to
broach certain subjects?
"Serve the next course, Albert ... So we
put the doctor aside, seeing that we cannot
regard him as a savant or a researcher. He
is saved by his mediocrity. ..."
He gave a little laugh and turned toward
old Gautier.
"Your turn now ... A more complicated
case . . . There are two possibilities. First, you are the model manager, the upright man
who devotes his life to his masters and the
chateau where he was born and bred. You
weren't born and bred here, but that doesn't
matter. In this case, your position isn't clear.
The Saint-Fiacres have only one male heir.
And little by little the family fortune is rapidly
disappearing under the nose of that heir.
The countess is behaving like a lunatic. . . .
Isn't it time to save what's left?
162
"Now that's as noble as anything in Walter
Scott, and your case resembles that of the cure.
"But there's the opposite hypothesis to be
considered too. You are no longer the model
manager born and bred at the chateau. You
are a scoundrel, and for years you've been
taking advantage of your masters' weakness.
When mortgage money is needed, it's you
who raise it. ... Now don't lose your temper,
Gautier. The cure didn't lose his, did
he? . . . And I haven't finished yet.
"You are practically the real owner of the
chateau. ..."
"Monsieur!"
"Don't you know how to play the game?
Because, I tell you, we are playing a game!
We are playing, if you like, at all being chief
inspectors like your neighbor. . . . The time
has come when the countess has her back to
the wall, everything will have to be sold, and she will find out that it's you who will
profit from the situation. . . . Wouldn't it be
better for the countess to die conveniently, which would also save her from making the
acquaintance of poverty?"
And, turning toward the butler, a shadow
in the shadows, a demon with two chalkwhite
hands, he said:
"Albert! Go and fetch my father's revolver

^
163

. . . That is, of course, if it's still here."
He poured some wine for himself and for
his two neighbors, then passed the bottle to
Maigret.
"Will you do the serving on your side?
. . . Well! We've almost got halfway through
our little game. . . . But let's wait for Albert.
. . . Monsieur Metayer, you aren't drinking."

They heard a strangled "No, thank you."
"How about you, Maitre?"
The latter, his mouth full, his tongue
coated, replied:
"No, thank you! No, thank you! I have
everything I need. . . . You'd make a wonderful
public prosecutor, you know."
He was the only one to laugh, to eat with
indecent gusto, and to drink glass after glass,
sometimes burgundy, sometimes claret, without
even noticing the difference.
They heard the tinny bell of the church
clock strike ten. Albert handed a heavy revolver
to the count, and the latter checked
that it was loaded.
"Perfect! I'll put it here, in the middle of
the table. . . . You will notice, gentlemen, that because this is a round table, it is at an
equal distance from each person. . . . We
have examined three cases. Now we are going
to examine three more. But first, will you
164
allow me to make a prophecy? ... To remain
in the Walter Scott tradition, I foretell that
before midnight my mother's murderer will
be dead!"
Maigret darted a sharp glance at him across
the table, and saw a pair of eyes that were
shining brightly, as if Saint-Fiacre was drunk.
At the same moment, a foot touched his
again.
"And now I'll go on. . . . But do eat yom salad ... I come now to your neighbor,
Chief Inspector, on your left; that is to say,
Emile Gautier. A serious, hardworking
young man, who, as they say at school prize
days, has made his way by merit and sheer
hard work. . . .
"Could he have killed my mother?
"One hypothesis: he worked hand in glove
with his father, for his father. . . .
"He goes every day to Moulins. He
knows the financial situation of the family
better than anybody else. He has every opportunity
of seeing a printer or a linotype
operator. . . .
"Let's go on ... Second hypothesis. You'll
forgive me for telling you. Metayer, if you
don't know already, that you had a rival.
Emile Gautier is no beauty. All the same, he
preceded you in the position you occupied
with such tact, I
^
165
"That was a few years ago. Did he begin
to entertain certain hopes? Had he succeeded, since then, in stirring my mother's
tender heart once more?
"The fact remains that he was her official
protege, and that he was entitled to conceive
all sorts of ambitions. . . .
"You came. You conquered.
"Why not kill the countess and at the
same time throw suspicion on you?"
Maigret's toes stirred uncomfortably in his
shoes. All this was horrible, sacrilegious!
Saint-Fiacre was talking as excitedly as a
drunkard. And the others were wondering
whether they could stick it out to the end, whether they should stay and endure this
scene or get up and go.
"You can see that we are faced with a complete
mystery. . . . Mind you, the countess
herself, up there, if she could speak, would
be unable to give us the solution to the problem.
The murderer is the only person who
knows about his crime. . . . Eat up, Emile
. . . and don't let this upset you, like your
father, who seems to be on the verge of fainting.

"Albert! There must be a few bottles of wine
left in the bin somewhere.
"Your turn now, young man!"
And he turned with a smile to face Metayer,
166
who jumped to his feet.
"Monsieur, my lawyer ..."
"Sit down, dammit! And don't make us
think that at your age you can't take a joke."
Maigret was watching him while he was
saying this, and he noticed that the count's
forehead was covered with large beads of
sweat.
"None of us is trying to make himself out
to be better than he is, is he? ... Good! I see
that you are beginning to understand. Have
some fruit. It's excellent for the digestion."
It was unbearably hot, and Maigret won*
dered who had switched off the electric
lights, leaving only the candles on the table
burning.
"Your case is so simple that it's positively
uninteresting. . . . You were playing a not
" very amusing part, which nobody is willing
to play for very long. Still, you were in my
mother's will. . . . That will risked being
changed at any moment. A sudden death,
and it would be all over. You would be free!
You would harvest the fruits of your ... of
Bl your sacrifice. And, dammit all, you would
be able to marry some young girl you must
have waiting for you back home."
| "I beg your pardon!" the lawyer protested,
B so comically that Maigret could not help
smiling. ^
"Shut your mouth! Drink up!"
Saint-Fiacre was categorical. He was drunk;
there could no longer be any shadow of a
doubt about that. He was displaying the eloquence
peculiar to drunkards, a mixture of
brutality and subtlety, of facile eloquence
and blurred speech.
"I'm the only one left!"
He called Albert.
"Look, old fellow, go upstairs. It must be
so dismal for my mother, staying all alone."
Maigret saw the butler glance inquiringly
at old Gautier, who gave a little nod.
"Just a moment! Bring us a few bottles
first . . . the whisky, too. Nobody objects
to a little informality, I imagine."
He looked at his watch.
"Ten past eleven . . . I've been talking
such a lot that I haven't heard your church
clock. Father."
When the butler moved the revolver slightly
while putting the whisky decanters on the
table, the count said:
"Careful, Albert! It must remain at an equal
distance from each of us."
He waited until the door was closed.
"There!" he said. "I'm the only one left!
I won't be telling you anything new when
I say I've never done anything worthwhile.
Except, perhaps, in my father's lifetime.
168
But since he died when I was only seventeen
. . .
"I'm on the rocks. Everybody knows that.
The popular press makes no secret of the
fact.
"I sign bad checks. I try my mother for
a loan as often as I can. I invent illness in
Berlin to get a few thousand francs. . . .
"You will notice that that was the missal
trick on a smaller scale.
r^ ___
s "Now, what's happening? . . . The money
that is due to come to me someday is being
spent by little swine like Metayer. . . . Excuse
me, young man . . . This is still transcendental
psychology. . . .
"Soon there'll be nothing left. I telephone
my mother, at a time when a bad check is
just about to land me in prison. She refuses
to pay. There are witnesses who can testify
to that.
"Besides, if this goes on, there'll be nothing
left of the family fortune in a short time.
"Two hypotheses, as in the case of Emile
Gautier. The first ..."
Never in his whole career had Maigret felt
so uncomfortable. And it was probably the
first time he had had the definite feeling of
being incapable of dealing with the situation.
Events were leaving him behind. Now and
then he thought he understood, and the next
%s
169
moment a phrase of Saint-Fiacre's would
make him question everything again.
And all the time there was that insistent
foot pressing against his.
"Let's change the subject!" suggested the
lawyer, who was now completely drunk.
"Gentlemen," began the priest.
"I beg your pardon. You must bear with
me until midnight at least. I was saying that
the first hypothesis . . .
"Damn! Now you've made me lose the
thread of my idea. ..."
As if to help himself find it again, he poured
himself a full glass of whisky.
"I know that my mother is very tenderhearted.
I slip the piece of paper into her
missal, in order to frighten her and thus
soften her up, with the intention of coming
back the next day to ask her for the necessary
sum, in the hope of finding her more sympathetic.
. . .
"But there's the second hypothesis. Why
shouldn't I, too, want to kill her?
"Not all the Saint-Fiacre fortune has gone.
There's a little money left. And in my position
a little money, however little, may make
all the difference.
"I am vaguely aware that Metayer is mentioned
in the will. But a murderer can't inherit.
... J
170
"Isn't he the man everyone will suspect of
the crime? He who spends part of his time
at a printer's in Moulins? He who, living in
the chateau, can slip the piece of paper into
the missal whenever he likes?
"Didn't I arrive at Moulins on Saturday
afternoon? And didn't I wait there with my
mistress for the result of this operation?"
He stood up, his glass in his hand.
"Your good health, gentlemen! . . . You
look gloomy. The whole of my mother's
poor life these last few years was gloomy.
. . . Isn't that so. Father? . . . It's only fair
that her last night should be accompanied
by a little gaiety."
He looked the chief inspector straight in the
eyes.
"Your good health. Monsieur Maigret!"
He was making fun of somebody, but of
whom? Of himself? Of everybody else?
Maigret felt that he was confronted by
a force against which there was nothing
to be done. Certain individuals, at a given
imoment in their lives, have an hour of
fulfilment like this, an hour during which
they are, as it were, situated above the
rest of mankind and above themselves.
Such is the case of the gambler who, at Monte Carlo, wins all the time, whatever he
does. Such is the case of the hitherto un^
s ^
171
known member of the opposition who, with
a speech he makes, brings down the government, and is the first to be surprised, since
all he wanted was a few lines in the official
record.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was living this
hour. There was a strength in him that
he had never before guessed he had, and
the others could do nothing but bow their
heads.
But wasn't it drink that was carrying him
away like this?
"Let's go back to the starting point of
our conversation, gentlemen, seeing that it
isn't midnight yet. ... I have said that my
mother's murderer is here among us. I have
proved that he could be I or any one of
you, except, perhaps, the chief inspector and
the doctor.
"I'm not even sure of that. . . .
"And I have prophesied his death. . . .
"Will you allow me to play the hypothesis
game once again? He knows that the law
is powerless against him. But he also knows
that there are, or will be, a few persons, six
at least, who know about his crime. . . .
"There, again, we are faced with several
solutions. ...
"The first is the most romantic, the most
consistent with the spirit of Walter Scott.
172
"But here I must open a fresh parenthesis.
What is the distinguishing feature of this
crime? It is that there are at least five
individuals who were revolving around the
countess . . . five individuals who stood
to benefit by her death, each of whom
may have envisaged the means of bringing
about that death. . . .
"Only one dared. Only one killed.
"Well, gentlemen, I can easily imagine that
individual taking advantage of this dinner
party to revenge himself on the others. He
is done for! Why not get rid of all of us?"
And Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, with a disarming
smile, looked at each guest in turn.
"Isn't it fascinating? The dining room, of
the old chateau, the candles, the table loaded
with bottles . . . Then, at midnight, death
. . . You will note that at the same time
all possibility of scandal would be averted.
Tomorrow, people would find us and be
completely baffled. They would talk of an
accident, or of a terrorist plot."
The lawyer stirred on his chair and anxiously
glanced around, into the darkness
that began less than a yard from the table.
"If I may venture to recall that I am a
doctor," growled Bouchardon, "I would recommend
a cup of strong black coffee for

173
everybody." ^ | SP ^
"And I," the priest said slowly, "would
remind you that there is a dead person in
the house."
Saint-Fiacre hesitated for a moment. A foot
brushed against Maigret's ankle, and he bent
down quickly, but once again too late.
"I asked you to give me until midnight.
I have only examined the first hypothesis.
There is another. . . . The murderer, hunted
down, panic-stricken, blows out his brains.
. . . But I don't think he will do that"
"For God's sake let's go into the smoking
room!" yelped the lawyer, standing up and
hanging on to the back of his chair to avoid
falling.
"Finally, there is a third hypothesis.
Somebody who cares for the honor of the
family comes to the murderer's help. Wait
a moment . . . The question is more complicated
than that. Mustn't a scandal be
avoided at all costs? Shouldn't the culprit
be helped to commit suicide?
"The revolver is there, gentlemen, at an
equal distance from every hand. ... It is
ten minutes to twelve. ... I repeat that at
midnight the murderer will be dead."
And this time he spoke so emphatically
that nobody said a word. Everyone held
his breath.
"The victim is up there, watched over by
174
a servant. . . . The murderer is here, surrounded
by seven people. ..."
The count drained his glass, and the anonymous
foot continued to brush against Maigret's.
"Six
minutes to twelve . . . Isn't this just
like Walter Scott? I trust the murderer is
beginning to shake in his shoes." He was drunk, but he went on drinking.
"Five people at least with reason to rob
an old woman deprived of her husband and
starved for love . . . Only one who dared
... It will be a bomb or a revolver, gentlemen.
A bomb that will blow us all up, or a
revolver that will kill only the culprit. . . .
Four minutes to twelve ..." Then he added in a curt voice:
"Don't forget that nobody knows!"
He seized the bottle of whisky and served
everybody, beginning with Maigret's glass
and finishing with Emile Gautier's.
He did not fill his own. Hadn't he drunk
enough? One candle went out. The others
were on the point of following suit.
"I said midnight. . . . Three minutes to
twelve ..."
He was talking like an auctioneer.
"Three minutes to twelve . . . The murderer
is going to die. You can begin saying
your prayer. Father. As for you. Doctor, I
q a ^
175
trust you've brought your bag with you?
. . . Two minutes to twelve . . . One and
a half minutes ..."
And all the time that insistent foot against
Maigret's foot. He did not dare bend down
again, for fear of missing something.
"I'm off!" exclaimed the lawyer.
All eyes turned toward him. He was
standing, still gripping the back of his chair.
He hesitated about venturing on the three
dangerous steps that would take him to the
door. He hiccuped.
And at the same moment a shot rang out.
There was one second, perhaps two, of general
immobility.
A second candle went out, and at the
same time Maurice de Saint-Fiacre swayed, hit the back of his Gothic chair with his
shoulders, leaned to the right, tried to regain
his balance, but slumped to the floor in
an inert mass, with his head against the
priest's arm.
176
--10--
The Funeral Wake
The scene that followed was pure confusion.
Something was happening everywhere, and
afterward nobody could have described
anything but the small part of the events
he had seen himself.
Only five candles were left to light the
whole dining room. Huge areas remained in
darkness, and, as they moved about, people
walked in and out of them as if they were
the wings of a theater.
The man who had fired was one of Maigret's
neighbors: Emile Gautier. And the shot
had scarcely rung out, it seemed, before he
was holding his wrists out toward the chief
inspector in a rather theatrical gesture.
Maigret was standing. Gautier got up.
His father did too. And the three of them ^^ formed a group on one side of the table, while another group gathered around the
victim.
Count de Saint-Fiacre was still lying with --his forehead against the priest's arm. The
doctor had bent down and then looked
^ ^
177
around him with a grim expression.
"Is he dead?" asked the plump lawyer.
No reply. It was as if, in that group, the
action was being played out limply by bad
actors.
And there was Jean Metayer, who belonged
to neither group. He had remained by
his chair, trembling, uneasy. He did not know
where to look.
During the minutes just before his action, Emile Gautier must have decided what attitude
to adopt. After putting the weapon back
on the table, and offering his wrists, he made
a declaration, looking Maigret straight in the
eyes.
"He said what was going to happen himself, didn't he? . . . The murderer had to die.
And since he was too cowardly to do justice
to himself ..."
His self-assurance was extraordinary.
"I did what I considered to be my duty." Could those on the other side of the table
hear? There were footsteps in the hallway.
It was the servants. The doctor went to the
door to prevent them from coming in. Maigret
did not hear what he said to get rid of
them.
"I saw Saint-Fiacre prowling around the
chateau on the night before the crime. . . .
That was how I knew . . ."178
The whole scene was badly organized. And
Gautier was hamming badly when he declared:

"The judges will say whether ..."
The doctor's voice could be heard asking:

"You're sure that it was Saint-Fiacre who
killed his mother?"
"Positive! Would I have done what I've
done if ..."
"You saw him prowling around the chateau
on the night before the crime?"
"I saw him as clearly as I can see you
now. He had left his car just outside the
village ..."
"You have no other proof?"
"Yes, I have. This afternoon the altar boy
came to see me at the bank with his mother.
... It was his mother who made him talk.
Shortly after the crime, the count asked the
boy to give him the missal and promised him
some money. ..."
Maigret's patience was nearly exhausted;
he felt he had been left out of the play.
Yes, a play! Why was the doctor smiling
into his beard? And why was the priest
gently pushing Saint-Fiacre's head away?
A play, moreover, that was to continue on
a note of farce and serious drama combined.
Because Count de Saint-Fiacre was stand~
%5- ^
179
ing up like a man who had just had a nap.
The expression in his eyes was hard, and
there was an ironic but threatening crease at
the corner of his mouth.
"Come here and say that again!" he said.
The cry that rang out was bloodcurdling.
Emile Gautier was screaming with fear and
hanging on to Maigret's arm, as if to ask
him for protection. But the chief inspector
drew back, leaving the field clear for the two
men.
There was somebody who did not understand:
Jean Metayer. And he was almost as
frightened as the bank clerk.
To cap everything, the candelabrum fell
over, and the tablecloth started smoldering, giving off a strong smell of burning. It was
the lawyer who prevented the fire from taking
hold, by emptying a bottle of wine over
it.
"Come here!"
It was an order. And the tone in which it
Was given was such that they all knew there
was no disobeying it.
Maigret had seized the revolver. A single
glance had shown him that it was loaded
with blanks.
The rest he could guess. Maurice de SaintFiacre
letting his head fall against the priest's
arm ... A few whispered words asking for
180
the illusion of his death to be preserved for
a moment ...
Now he was no longer the same man. He
seemed taller, sturdier. He did not take his
eyes off young Gautier, and it was the manager
who suddenly ran toward a window, opened it, and shouted to his son:
"This way!"
It was not a bad plan. The confusion and
excitement were so great at that moment
that Gautier would have had a good chance
of making his escape.
Did the little lawyer do it on purpose?
Probably not. Or else it was drunkenness that
invested him with a sort of heroism. As the
fugitive was making for the window, he
stretched out one leg, and Gautier fell headlong.

He did not get up by himself. A hand
seized him by the collar, lifted him -up and
put him on his feet. He screamed again when
he saw that it was Saint-Fiacre who was forcing
him to stay upright.
"Don't move! . . . Somebody shut the
window. . . .M
Then he slammed his fist into his companion's
face, which turned crimson. He did
it coldly.
"Now talk! . . . Tell us all about it ..." Nobody intervened. Nobody even thought

^,.
181

of doing so, they were so convinced that
only one man had the right to raise his voice.
There was only old Gautier to growl in
Maigret's ear:
"Are you going to let him do as he likes?"
Yes, he was! Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was
in command of the situation, and he was adequate
to his task.
"You saw me on the night in question, that's true enough."
Then he said to the others:
"Do you know where? ... On the steps.
I was going in. He was coming out. I was
planning to take some of the family jewels to
sell. We found ourselves face to face in the
dark. It was freezing. And this little swine
told me that he had just come from . . .
Have you guessed? Yes, from my mother's
bedroom!"
In a lower voice he added casually:
"I abandoned my plan. I went back to
Moulins."
Jean Metayer had opened his eyes wide.
The lawyer was stroking his chin nervously,
and he kept glancing toward his glass but
did not dare go and get it.
"That wasn't proof enough. There were
two of them in the house, and Gautier could
have been telling the truth. As I explained
before, he was the first to take advantage of
182
an old woman's unhappiness. Metayer only
came along later. . . . Perhaps Metayer, conscious
that his position was threatened, attempted
to take his revenge. I tried to find
out. Both of them were on their guard. It
was as if they were defying me to do anything.
..."
"That's true, isn't it, Gautier? ... I was
the gentleman with the bad checks who
prowled around the chateau at night, and
who wouldn't dare make any accusations, for fear of getting arrested himself. ..."
In another tone of voice, he went on:
"Forgive me. Father, and you, too. Doctor, for inflicting all this filth on you. But, as we've already been told, real justice, the
justice of the courts, is powerless here. . . .
That's so, isn't it. Monsieur Maigret? . . . Did you understand, at least, when I was
kicking you under the table just now?"
He was walking up and down, passing from the light into the shadows and from
the shadows into the light. He was a man
holding himself back, managing to remain
calm only at the cost of a tremendous effort.
Sometimes he went close enough to Gautier
to touch him.
"What a temptation to pick up the revolver
and fire! Yes, I had said myself that
the culprit would die at midnight, and you

^
183

. . . you became the defender of the honor
of the Saint-Fiacres."
This time his fist struck so hard, right in
the middle of his face, that the bank clerk's
nose began bleeding profusely.
Emile Gautier had the eyes of a dying animal.
He reeled under the blow and looked
as if he was on the point of weeping with
pain, fear, and panic.
The lawyer tried to intervene, but SaintFiacre
pushed him away.
"You keep out of this!"
And that "you" emphasized the enormous
distance that separated them. Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre dominated the company.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have another
little formality to see to."
He opened the door wide and turned toward
Gautier.
"Come!"
The other stood rooted to the ground. The
hallway was in darkness. He did not want
to 'go out there with his adversary.
It did not take long. Saint-Fiacre went up
to him and hit him again, so hard that he
was knocked headlong into the hallway.
"Up there!"
He pointed to the staircase leading to the
floor above. ..,
"Chief Inspector, I warn you that
.«-. ^i--^	»
184
s
panted the manager.
The priest had turned his head away.
He was suffering. But he did not have the
strength to intervene. Everyone was at the
end of his tether. Metayer poured himself
a drink, not caring what it was, he was so
IJ? parched.
"Where are they going?" asked the lawyer.
They could hear them walking along the
hallway; the flagstones rang with the sound
of their footsteps. And they could hear
j Gautier panting for breath.
"You knew everything," Maigret said
1 slowly, in a very low voice, to the manager.
"You were working hand in glove, you and
your son! You already had the farms, the
mortgages. . . . But Metayer remained a risk.
So you decided to kill the countess, and
at the same time get rid of the gigolo, who
•L would fall under suspicion ..."
A cry of pain. The doctor went into the
corridor to see what was happening.
"It's nothing," he said. "The little swine
—doesn't want to go upstairs and he's being
^^helped along."
H "This is a scandal! It's a crime! . . . What
is he going to do?" cried old Gautier, rushing
out of the room.
r Maigret and the doctor followed him. They
arrived at the foot of the staircase just as the
• ^,. •'r
m 185
other two, upstairs, reached the door of the
dead woman's bedroom.
And they heard Saint-Fiacre's voice:
"In you go!"
"I can't. ... I ..."
"In you go!"
A dull thud. Another blow.
Old Gautier ran up the stairs, followed by
Maigret and Bouchardon. They arrived at
the top just as the door was closing.
At first they could hear nothing behind
the heavy oak door. The manager held his
breath, grimacing in the dark.
A thin ray of light shone under the door.
"On your knees!"
A pause. A hoarse gasp.
"Quicker than that! ... On your knees!
. . . And now beg her forgiveness!"
Again, silence, which was very prolonged.
A cry of pain. This time it was not a punch
the murderer had received, but a kick full
in the face.
"For . . . forgive me."
"Is that all? Is that all you can find to say?
. . . Remember that it was she who paid for
your studies ..."
"Forgive me!"
"Remember that three days ago she was
alive."
"Forgive me!"
»,'
186
"Remember, you dirty little swine, that
you once wormed your way into her bed."
"Forgive me! . . . Forgive me!"
"You can do better than that! . . . Come, now. Tell her you are a filthy louse. . . .
Repeat after me . . ."
"I am . . ."
"On your knees, I said! . . . Do you need
a carpet?"
"Don't! ... I ..."
"Beg her forgiveness."
Suddenly these exchanges, which were
separated by long silences, were followed
by a series of loud noises. Saint-Fiacre had
lost his self-control. There were a number of
thuds.
Maigret opened the door a little. SaintFiacre
was holding Gautier by the neck and
banging his head on the floor.
When he saw the chief inspector, he let go, wiped his forehead, and straightened up.
"I've finished," he said, breathing fast.
He caught sight of the manager and
frowned.
"Don't you feel the need to beg her forgiveness
too?"
The old man was so frightened that he
threw himself on his knees.
All they could see of the dead woman, in
the light from a couple of tapers, was the
^
187
nose, which seemed enormous, and the folded
hands, which were holding a rosary.
"Get out!"
The count pushed the Gautiers out of the
room and shut the door. The group started
going downstairs.
Emile was bleeding. He could not find his
handkerchief. The doctor passed him his.
The bank clerk was a horrible sight: a battered,
bloodstained face, the nose nothing
but a tumor and the upper lip split open.
And yet the ugliest, the most horrible thing
about his appearance was the eyes, their
shifty expression.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, very upright, like
the master of a house who knows what he
has to do, strode down the long ground-floor
hallway and opened the door, letting in a gust
of icy air.
"Get out!" he growled, turning toward the
father and son.
But just as Emile was going out, he caught
hold of him, with an instinctive gesture.
Maigret was certain that he heard a sob
in the count's throat as he started hitting
the bank clerk again, convulsively, and crying:

"You swine! You swine!"
It was enough for the chief inspector just
to touch him on the shoulder. Saint-Fiacre
188
regained his composure, literally threw the
body down the steps, and shut the door.
But not before they had heard the old
man's voice again:
"Emile? Where are you?"
The priest was praying, with his elbows
on the sideboard. In one corner Metayer and
his lawyer were sitting motionless, their eyes
fixed on the door.
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre came in, his head
held high.
"Gentlemen," he began.
But he could not go on. His voice was
choked by emotion. He was at the end of his
tether.
He shook hands with the doctor and Maigret,
as much as to say they could now go.
Then, turning toward Metayer and his companion, he waited.
Those two did not seem to understand.
Or else they were paralyzed by fear.
To show them the way, a gesture was re- jquired, followed by a snap of the fingers.
That was all.
Or was it? The lawyer started looking for
his hat, and Saint-Fiacre groaned:
"Quicker than that!"
Maigret heard a murmur of voices behind a
door, and he guessed that it was the servants,
189
trying to figure out what was happening in
the chateau.
He put on his heavy overcoat. He felt the
need to shake hands once more with SaintFiacre.
The
door was open. Outside, it was a
bright, cold night, without a single cloud.
The poplars stood out against a moonlit
sky. Footsteps rang out somewhere, a long
way away. And there were lights in the
windows of the manager's house.
"No, you stay. Father."
And, in the echoing hall, Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre's voice added:
"Now, if you are not too tired, we are
going to keep watch over my mother. ..."
190
—11—
The Whistle
"You mustn't be cross with me. Monsieur
Maigret, for looking after you so badly.
. . . But, what with the funeral ..."
Poor Marie Tatin was bustling around,
getting whole crates of beer and lemonade
ready.
"Especially seeing that those who live a
long way off will drop in here for a bite ..."
The fields were white with frost, and the
grass crackled underfoot. Every quarter of
an hour the passing bell of the little church
tolled.
The hearse had arrived at dawn, and the
undertaker's men were waiting at the inn, in
a half-circle around the stove.
"I'm surprised the manager isn't at
home," Marie Tatin had told them. "He's
probably at the chateau with Monsieur Maurice.
..."
Already
a few peasants, who had put on
their Sunday clothes, could be seen.
Maigret was finishing his breakfast when,
through the wmdow, he saw the altar boy
Sj|^
191
arrive, holding his mother's hand. But the
woman did not accompany him as far as the
inn. She stopped at the corner of the road, where she thought she was out of sight, and
pushed her son forward, as if to give him
the necessary impetus to reach Marie Tatin's
inn.
When Ernest came in, he was very selfassured,
like a boy at school ready to recite
a fable he has been rehearsing for three
months.
"Is the chief inspector here?"
At the very moment he was asking Marie
Tatin this question, he caught sight of Maigret
and went toward him with his hands in
his pockets, one of them toying with something.

"I've come to . . ."
"Show me your whistle."
Ernest promptly took a step back, turned
his eyes away, thought for a moment, and
murmured:
"What whistle?"
"The one you've got in your pocket. Have
you been wanting a scout whistle for a long
time?"
The boy automatically took it from his
pocket and put it on the table.
"Now tell me your little story."
A suspicious glance, followed by an im192
perceptible shrug of the shoulders. For Ernest
was already cunning. The expression in his
eyes said clearly:
"I don't care! I've got the whistle! I'm
going to say what I was told to say."
And he recited:
k "It's about the missal. ... I didn't tell
you everything the other day, because I
was scared of you. . . . But Ma wants
me to tell the truth. . . . Somebody came
and asked me for the missal, just before
High Mass. ..."
All the same, he was red in the face, and
he snatched the whistle back as if he were
afraid of having it confiscated because of his
lie.
"And who came and asked you for it?"
^"Monsieur Metayer . . . The secretary at
the chateau ..."
"Come and sit next to me. . . . Would you
like a grenadine?"
"Yes. With fizzy water."
"Bring us a grenadine with soda water,
Marie. . . . And you, are you pleased with
your whistle? . . . Blow it for me."
The undertaker's men turned around
when they heard the whistle.
"Your mother bought it for you yesterday
afternoon, didn't she?"
"How do you know?"
s's' •'y'
193
"How much did they give her yesterday
at the bank?"
The boy looked him in the eyes. He was
no longer red in the face, but pale. He
glanced toward the door, as if to see how far
he was from it.
"Drink your grenadine ... It was Emile
Gautier who saw you. He taught you what
to say."
"Yes!"
"He told you to accuse Jean Metayer?"
"Yes."
And, after a pause for thought:
"What are you going to do to me?"
Maigret forgot to reply. He was thinking.
He was thinking that his part in this case
had been limited to finding the last link, a
tiny link that completed the chain.
It was Jean Metayer, all right, whom Gautier
had wanted to have accused. But events
of the previous evening had upset his plans.
He had realized that the man he had to fear
was not the secretary, but Count de SaintFiacre.
If
all had gone well, he would have been
obliged to go to see the red-haired boy again
before long, to teach him a new lesson:
"You must say that it was Monsieur the
Count who asked you for the missal. . ."
And now the boy repeated:
194
"What are you going to do to me?"
Maigret did not have time to reply. The
lawyer came down the stairs, entered the
main room of the inn, and approached
Maigret, his hand outstretched, with a hint
of hesitation.
"Did you sleep well. Chief Inspector? . . .
Excuse me ... I would like to ask your advice, on behalf of my client. ... I have such
a terrible headache. ..."
He sat down, or, rather, slumped on the
bench.
"The funeral is at ten o'clock, isn't it?" ^ He looked at the undertaker's men, then
at the people passing along the road, waiting
for the funeral to begin.
"Between us, do you think that Metayer's
duty is to ... Don't misunderstand me. We
know the situation, and it's precisely out of
a sense of delicacy that ..."
"Can I go now, monsieur?"
Maigret did not hear. He was listening to
the lawyer.
"Haven't you understood yet?"
"I mean if one examines ..."
"Let me give you a piece of advice: Don't
examine anything at all!"
"In your opinion it would be better to leave
without . . ."^s-
Too late! Ernest, who had his whistle safe
^
195
in his pocket, had opened the door and taken
to his heels.
"From the legal point of view, we are in
an excellent position ..."
"Yes, excellent!"
"Isn't it? ... That's what I was saying
to . . ."
"Did he sleep well?"
"He didn't even undress. He's a very highstrung,
very sensitive fellow, like many
young men of good family, and ..."
But the undertaker's men were pricking
up their ears, standing up, paying for their
drinks. Maigret stood up too, took his coat
with the velvet collar from the stand, and
wiped his bowler hat with his sleeve.
"The two of you have a chance to slip away
during ..."
"During the funeral? ... In that case, I
must telephone for a taxi."
"That's right."
• The priest was in his surplice, Ernest
and two other altar boys in their black
cassocks. The cross was carried by a priest
from a nearby village, who was walking
fast because of the cold. They were intoning
liturgical chants as they hurried along the
road.
The peasants were grouped at the foot
196
of the steps. Nothing could be seen inside.
Finally the door opened and the coffin appeared, carried by four men.
Behind was a tall silhouette: Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre, red-eyed, very erect.
He was not in black. He was the only person
not wearing mourning. t And yet, when, from the top of the steps, he let his gaze wander over the crowd, there
was a feeling of embarrassment.
| He came out of the chateau with no one
beside him. And he followed the coffin
alone.
From where he stood, Maigret could see
the manager's house, which had been his
own home. The doors and windows were
closed.
The shutters of the chateau were closed
too. Only in the kitchen could some servants
be seen, their noses pressed against the windowpanes.

The sound of the sacred chants was almost
drowned by the crunch of footsteps on the
gravel.
The bell was in full peal.
i Two pairs of eyes met: the count's and 1 Maigret's.
i Was the chief inspector mistaken? It
seemed to him that Maurice de Saint-Fiacre's
lips were touched by the ghost of a smile.

^
197

Not the smile of the skeptical Parisian, the
penniless prodigal.
A serene, confident smile . . .
During the Mass, everybody heard the
high-pitched horn of a taxi. A little swine
was making his escape in the company of a
lawyer with a hangover.
198
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